The Return of Sherlock Holmes
by MageRightsActivist
Summary: An interpretation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original text written in BBC Sherlock's style. Sherlock is back, and there is only one enemy left to fight before things can return to normal, but can John keep his feelings hidden any longer? JohnLock slash
1. The Case of Peter Miles

The Return of Sherlock Holmes – an interpretation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original text written to mirror the period and style of the BBC's 'Sherlock' series, in which the 'Sherlock' referenced is as played by Benedict Cumberbatch, and 'John' as played by Martin Freeman.  
>Of course I do not own the characters used or the BBC's version of Sherlock, or Benedict or Martin, though if I did... It would go something like this. I hope you all enjoy, I've written detailed plot-points for this story, which I am quite proud of, including an entirely seperate plot for what really happened in the case they work on, and for the circumstances surrounding Sherlock's survival. Please review or leave some kind of feedback so that I know if it is worth continuing.<p>

Thanks again for reading!

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><p>The Return of Sherlock Holmes 1; The Case of Peter Miles<p>

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><p>It has been a long time since the day he left. I believe that as of now, it has been exactly 2 years.<br>I had never felt the need to speak out, never felt the need to say anything, the 'We believe in Sherlock Holmes' movement began to die out, as the followers diminished or went into hiding due to the many anonymous – and not so anonymous – threats they received from the general public. They regarded him as a freak, a monster; and now I, John Hamish Watson, feel it necessary to say this: I would never have done so, regarding the last wishes of my best friend and most admirable man, if I had not lost all sense of hope that he might one day return.

Now as Moriarty's agents stand and defend him for an honourable and courageous man I feel I must do the same, and lay bare what I know personally of the end of Sherlock Holmes. A man to whom there was no equal, and at the end I believe he may not have even found it in the infamous Jim Moriarty.

The last day I spent with Sherlock, his world was being torn down, ravaged and plundered by the people he held close to him. It was a difficult thing for him, to express any kind of feeling towards those who surrounded him, however, he did not fight it, in some ways I assumed he had all but given in knowing that no-one would support him any longer; now that Moriarty had invented some forgery of his identity.  
>We experienced a rather fanciful chase through the back-alleys leading away from 221B Baker Street, which I shall only say required a lot of co-ordination, and in that particular turn of events I found that us running together towards a goal was much more exciting – if that were even possible – than going our separate ways and meeting at an end.<p>

In the moments I shared with Sherlock, I felt as though I had truly found a method of living, rather than just simply staying alive. I know that life was a tedious business for him, but he seemed happiest when he had a challenge, something to put his intellect to good use – for it was there. It was no hoax, I was with the man almost 24/7 and I saw it, I watched the deductions and the realizations dawn on his face, and the sheer joy it filled him with.

The last few words that Sherlock had said to me were to convince the public of his fraudulence as he stood atop... that building; and prepared himself for the end. Even in those moments, even as I looked up at him, a man broken and without direction – acting for, I believe – the interests of others and not his own, (for if Moriarty was dead then what should he have to fear?) nothing in this world or otherwise could have made me believe for one moment that he was not the man I had always known him to be; the amazing, most incredible, and entirely real Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective of 221B Baker Street.

My good man believe me to be, most sincerely yours –

John H Watson

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><p>John sat back from the computer screen, pausing with his finger hovering over the enter button. He wanted to write so much more, there was so much about a man like Sherlock that one could simply not fit into a small passage on a blog which was probably no longer read by anyone, he never could get the hit counter fixed. He ran a hand through his hair; he was relatively the same as he had been on the day Sherlock had died, only with a much more tired look about him.<p>

Still as alone as ever – there had been several girlfriends, but they had all come and gone. He simply couldn't fill the void that the detective had left in his life, and trying to move in with a woman felt as though he were betraying the man's memory by replacing him with another person.

It was agonising, those days without him; the absence of his airy aloofness, his soft elegant footfalls on the carpet – _their carpet._ Almost, John mused, as though he had lost a limb, like a part of him had been cut off and died, left feeling incomplete and empty without the man with the long, lean legs, towering stature and high cheekbones. Lost was he, without Sherlock's nicotine spiced scent and soft brunette curls. It was marvellous, the way his face lit up whenever he would genuinely smile, and the flush that the thrill of adventure and the chase would bring to his cheeks.

No, John Watson was not gay, he was only attracted to women; most certainly. He was not gay, he did not love men – he just loved one man. Even he was unaware how strong his feelings had been, even he had never imagined or known just what the loss of Sherlock Holmes would do to him, but he knew it now, as though nothing in the world could be more wrong and more right at the same time. He loved Sherlock, and he always would.

With a heavy, mournful sigh of a man who had lost all purpose, the doctor opened up a new document to type again. This time it was with the news his readers stuck with him for, updates of crimes and the prospects of John getting involved in cases once more. Shortly after Sherlock's death, many of their readers had along with expressing their condolences, had mentioned that perhaps the ex-soldier should continue their line of work, they assured him that he had been extremely useful himself in the investigations the detective had finished. So, once again, with the forlorn half-smile of old gracing his face, John wrote.

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><p>There have been cases since Sherlock left. The most interesting by far however, is undoubtedly that of Mr Peter Miles.<p>

Miles was a wealthy man, though it was common knowledge that his funds were ill-gotten. I believe the official explanation for his death was overdose – though I'm fairly certain that isn't the case. Miles had no reason to overdose, his life was perfectly in order and he was happily married with two daughters. All records show that he had no history of drug use or medicinal abuse. No, I am adamant that he was murdered.

I only found a few items of consequence when I visited the scene; the carpet was moved – signs of a search – there were tickets for a recent trip to Fiji, packs of playing cards, and an aquarium so large it would require professional care.  
>There were doctor's notes advising him on his allergies to various marine animals; no doubt in light of his holiday. I had hoped that this would prove to be cause of death; however, it went without investigation due to the time lapse between the trip and his death.<p>

No-one entered the house other than his staff save for a visitor who left the grounds 7 hours before the time of death. No windows were opened and none of the workers entered his room or saw anyone else enter it.  
>If anyone has any further information or wishes to discuss please contact me; take heed that I no longer live at 221B, the amended address is at the top of the page.<p>

John H Watson

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><p>No sooner had John published his latest entry than a message pinged up on the screen. Someone had already responded. He grumbled and clicked on it lazily, expecting the usual 'oh I'm so sorry for your loss, hope you catch the killer' but the words on screen proved to be almost too much for him. Someone was paying attention – they had not only read through what the doctor had posted, but thought it through, analyzed it and proposed new lines of investigation. John froze, his heart skipped a beat; for a moment it almost seemed like Sherlock... But it couldn't be, it wouldn't be, and so the blonde dedicated his focus to running this anonymous informant's ideas through his head.<p>

Brilliant, genius, pure magic.

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><p>Sherlock Holmes was a solitary man at the best of times. There was only one person he ever missed, and his admiration for the military doctor, John Watson, was one of the only things that kept him to his plans. By now, almost all of Moriarty's gang had been taken care of. Moriarty himself had once referred to them as a delightful collection of Ms. There was only one of them left now, a one Sebastian Moran; loyal and lethal, a very dangerous combination. Moran was a retired military officer much like John, but unlike John he devoted his time to hunting, the craft of the gun and the deaths of men. If Sherlock were to return to 221B at any time, he would have to overcome this last obstacle – and overcome it he would. Even if it meant that he should travel once again to the other end of the world and track down a package in the Sahara desert, he would make it home, back to London, back to John, if it killed him; which on several occasions it almost had done.<p>

The detective checked his old friend's blog daily. Often the things posted were of little consequence to him, the long overdue eulogy had enticed a stirring in the pit of his stomach.

Guilt, anger, longing, regret, bitterness, admiration?

He wasn't sure – after all, emotions had never been his strong point. All this _feeling _made his head ache, and so the man's slim fingers found themselves purchase on the end of a cigarette and he took a long drag.

Suddenly the screen in front of him informed him that a new entry had been posted, he had to admit even he was a little surprised. John would not usually update more than once a day. Oh but this entry was intriguing, a case, and a case that was seemingly somewhat of a challenge to the police. How long it had been since the young man had given his brain an exercise of this sort, how long it had been since he could give himself that boost, that rush of adrenaline he felt when he spoke to his companion, his only friend. The object of his attentions – and admittedly his physical desires – and the one person whose attentions he desired with similar fervour. Stimulating conversation with an attractive, kind man, that was something severely lacking in his life right now, not that Sherlock felt any form of attachment on an emotional level, oh no. It was simply admiration and appreciation that he felt for John, friendship one might go as far as to say, but the detective of 221B did not feel for other people with the intensity that one might argue he should, so that was where his emotions would stay, and where he would regard them to always stay.

Oh but how he had missed John. How he had missed him.

How he had felt the absence of the other man's ability to deduce things that perhaps Sherlock did not pick up on, he was grateful for the advice the older man gave, and though the brunette did not often show it, he was impressed with how far John could get in a case without him.

Fingers tapping over the keyboard at speed, sharp keen eyes darted back and forth over the blog entry in front of him. His smooth, full lips twisted into a smirk, some of the healthy sheen returning to his pale features as his deductions came fast and soon he had all but solved the problem presented to him. It was the least he could do to point John in the right direction, after all, that's what friends are for right?

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><p>John,<br>we have never spoken before, but I must say from what you have written of Sherlock Holmes, even though he seems a great man, he surely did not solve all of these crimes without your help. Personally I believe you are correct to investigate into Miles' allergies to forms of marine life, especially with that aquarium in his home. I would see what kind of animals he is keeping, salt-water or fresh-water, and a point of interest; Peter Miles was heavily associated with a man known as 'Sebastian Moran', his name may be of importance in some manner or other. Really, just scratch beneath the surface, it cannot be that hard to tell what has happened to the man, you stopped investigating your main convictions on the whim of some police officers!  
>Sincerely<br>AB

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><p>Now he would wait. Sitting back in his chair with his elbows on his knees, Sherlock put his fingertips together and rested his lips against them in thought. <em>Come on John. Bite. <em>  
>He cast a glance over at the package sitting on an old oaken end-table next to him. There were notches and gashes in the wood like the scars of a lifetime well-lived; there was room – the detective reasoned – for another yet.<p> 


	2. Hello John

I'm sorry for how closely to Conan-Doyle's storyline this chapter follows, but I did want to keep a lot of the original elements in there - of course I didn't go through with John's original reaction to Sherlock's return, we've been waiting for a better reaction since the beginning of the 1900s. Thank you all who added this story to their alert, for the review, and I'm flattered by those who added me to author update. I hope you enjoy this chapter, there aren't many hints of Johnlock in this chapter, and there won't be too many in the next chapter, more of what they think but keep to themselves. But don't worry, we're getting there slowly.

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><p>The Return of Sherlock Holmes 2; Hello John<p>

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><p>Another day at the crime scene, really, it was beginning to get monotonous. There had been no further messages from 'AB' since he'd been told to look into the animals that were kept in the aquarium. There was just one problem, John didn't know anything about marine animals, and the police refused to help with this 'ridiculous' line of investigation. He knew he was right, there was no doubt about it, but how did he prove it? Was this what it was like to be Sherlock, all those times where he swore he just knew something; but of course Moriarty wouldn't class it as a win unless the detective could prove it. So, another day wasted the doctor returned to his apartment, a small place on the upper floor of an old building on Melcombe Street – a street leading onto Baker Street, almost directly to 221B.<p>

As much as it pained John to see their old place, to be reminded of all that happened and ceased to happen when Sherlock died, he couldn't stand to be very far away from there. And of course it was easier to visit Mrs Hudson. With a heavy heart he made to leave for the day, giving a passive half-wave to Lestrade he turned up his collar against the cold and made his way home.  
>There were still a few <em>comforts <em>that he kept around in his new flat; Sherlock's skull – which as much as he protested otherwise, was actually nice to talk to – and the deer skull with the headphones, the ashtray Sherlock had once stolen from Buckingham palace, Irene Adler's camera phone, the London directory, and the violin still in its case propped up against the wall where the windows faced the street.

But it was cold; a feeble attempt to fill the gaps, to prevent John from forgetting about the adventures he and Sherlock had shared. Of course he never could forget, no-one could forget a man like that.

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><p>"When are you going to tell him?" the female voice chastised softly, "It isn't fair really is it? Both me and Mrs Hudson know now, why not John?"<p>

Molly Hooper was a petite woman, with mousy hair, thin lips, and a nervous stature. For all of her hesitant qualities and careful conversation she was strong and determined, and though she used to bend to anything that Sherlock would say, 2 years had hardened her resolve and she would tell him her mind.

"Because John does not yet need to know." Came the cold reply, though Molly knew him well enough to recognise the slight heightening in pitch stemming from conflicting feelings. "There wouldn't be much point in it. Oh hello John, by the way I'm alive, though not for very long as Mr Moran is going to put a bullet through my head now."

The coroner bit her tongue and fought with herself to refrain from snapping at her companion.

"Soon, I will tell him soon."

"So, what are we trying to do here anyway Sherlock?" she asked, eyes taking in every inch of the man before her as though he might vanish into thin air if she looked the other way for just a second.

"I needed Mrs Hudson's permission to use the place again, which is why she has been informed of my 'survival', and I need you, Molly, so that we can set up a welcome for our friend Moran."  
>Sherlock grinned smugly, hands in his trouser pockets. It was as though the last 24 months hadn't changed him in the least, he was still the same as ever, brunette curls bouncing with each movement, skin pale and without a blemish in sight. His eyes sparkled with the promise of something exciting happening, and the companionship of the people he had left behind a long time ago.<p>

"Okay, what are we after?" asked the younger woman, frowning a little at the rules and legislations she would have to ignore to help Sherlock clear his name. They'd been through the details a little, though Molly for all intents and purposes didn't know exactly what was to happen until the detective needed it to. She knew that he'd gathered enough evidence in his favour to expose Moriarty for the criminal he was, and that this final piece of the puzzle, the King chess piece, Sebastian Moran, would be the key to lock everything in place. Now they were setting a trap for him.

"I brought the body like you asked." She gestured to a black body-bag, which the sociopath took great joy in unzipping. Immediately he stood with a spring in his step and clapped Molly on the shoulders.

"Wonderful! Exactly what I needed Molly, seems I was right to ask it of you." He proceeded to begin dragging the body out; making sure that all the boards covering the windows prevented anyone from looking inside. He propped the corpse up against the wall and proceeded to dress it in some of his own clothes.

"You see, if I make this body look convincing enough, and have Mrs Hudson move it every so often, it will seem as though I am sat in the window looking out. Moran already knows of my return to London, and he is searching me out so that his master's final work is not undone. However, if he believes I am once again inhabiting 221B, he will target this window, or perhaps this room. We must lay a trap for him here in case poison is his weapon of choice, and I will stake out the prime vantage point in case a gun is the medium." He was pacing up and down the room as he explained, the coroner simply watching him with an awed expression. He clicked his fingers and pointed straight at one of the covered up windows.

"That one will do nicely, there's an unused building straight across from here. I imagine due to Moran's military service, he will choose to shoot me. Men like him do _love _to show off. So, once he is indisposed – not dead mind you or that would be disastrous – he will be arrested and serve as the final evidence in my case."

There was no further discussion, and the two of them set about performing the task set to them. A convincing silhouette would have to be made, Moran was not the type to be easily fooled, or so Sherlock continued to remind them of as he pointed out flaws in Molly's methods. But Moran had made a mistake, and the detective had gotten hold of some very important information, he would be panicked, and that would be fatal to his success.  
>Yes fatal – but not too fatal.<p>

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><p>The walk home this time was very cold, and the wind began to pick up as John rounded the last corner from Siddon Lane, he could feel the beginnings of raindrops pattering against his face. He shivered, choosing to walk much more often than take a taxi recently, still too much of a 'Sherlock' thing to do, and the exercise was helpful, not to mention the solitude in which he could think once he reached the quieter back alleys. So lost in his thoughts, was John, that he walked directly into someone who had been taking a photograph of the scenery – most likely a tourist.<p>

"Oh, pardon me!" he squeaked, suddenly interrupted from his mental wanderings.

"I should think so!" came the gruff reply, the man was tall, lean, he wore a trench coat which was very dirty, a worn out old deerstalker, a scarf over his face, and large sunglasses. _In this weather, really? _Thought John at this observation, it was obvious the man wasn't blind; he'd been taking a photograph! It was as though he wanted to draw attention to his attire, but the doctor thought nothing of it, and instead fobbed him off as one of the many homeless men in London who'd picked up a dropped camera and was testing it so that he could sell it on for food, drink, or drug money. He hoped it was the first, since Sherlock had held such admiration for the homeless network. The blonde nodded curtly and turned to walk away.

"People nowadays, no sodding respect!" he heard the man complain as he fumbled with the keys to let himself into his apartment.  
>Once John was out of sight, the man began to chuckle to himself.<p>

"Really doctor?" he asked aloud. "And I made it so obvious too."  
>Gathering himself up, the man walked up to the door that the ex-soldier had just gone through and rapped hard on the wood. A middle aged man answered the door, tall, quite fat, with a stiff walk that could most likely be attributed to an early onset of arthritis due to his weight problems.<p>

"I'm looking for John Watson." The spectacled man asked, and was shown inside without a sound, and pointed in the direction of the stairs.

"First door on the left." Was the only information he was given before he was pushed up the first few steps. Dusting himself off he chuckled again, _he didn't even bother to ask who I was. I could be here to murder the good doctor and he wouldn't have a clue, or maybe even a care about it._

John had slumped into his armchair the moment he'd gotten back into the house. It wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, but being unable to solve a simple case was getting to him, he was sure that the detective would have it cracked straight away, maybe even -

"It's the snail, John." A voice floated in from the doorway, like honey to the doctor's ears, and he assumed he was hallucinating, or had fallen asleep and was having another dream in which Sherlock had returned. "The '_Conus Marmoreus' _or Marbled Cone Snail; poisonous, not fatal in small doses, but throw in an allergy to that particular species and you have a positively _deadly _combination." Okay, this was getting stupid. John couldn't believe his imagination was getting this vivid, he didn't have any knowledge about marine life, how could he come up with an answer like that in his head – silly how it would come in the form of the brunette's voice though.

"After all this time you're not going to greet an old friend?"

Right, now a stop needed to be put to this. The doctor got up slowly out of his seat and reached for his walking stick. He'd actually bought himself a wooden one this time, it seemed more in-keeping with the type of company he'd been surrounded with as of late. His psychosomatic limp had returned shortly after Sherlock had disappeared, with a vengeance at that.

John turned to face the doorway, and there, bright as day, stood Sherlock Holmes, leaning on the wood casually, the glasses, hat and scarf had been removed – why, he was the man he had run into in the street! But that couldn't be the case could it? Of course not; he was an apparition, some psychosis that John had worked himself up into. He must have seemed like some kind of representation of a fish, mouth opening and closing with a blank look to the rest of his features as he struggled for words. The detective smirked, righting himself and walking over to his old companion, before placing a hand on his arm.

"Welcome back would be a nice place to start." He joked; the blonde blinked a few times, mouth drawn into a thin line, and entire body tensed.

"W-W-W" that was as far as he got, before it became too much, and John Watson hit the floor.

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><p>The world was blurred, lights faded in first, slowly, then sound, and John thought he could make out the tones of Sherlock speaking.<br>"My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies," said the well-remembered voice. "I had no idea you would be so affected."  
>What had happened? That was right, he had thought he'd seen Sherlock, and then it was all black, blank. The doctor sat up in bed and rubbed his aching head as the room came into focus. There, in all his elegance, sat the sociopathic detective.<br>"I'd known you'd suffer some shock, but I didn't expect it to be quite this bad," began the younger man, as though the last 2 years had never happened and everything was back to normal.  
>"Now, I was hoping you'd come with me on an errand, I have to see to a certain individual – Sebastian Moran – perhaps you remember him from the message I sent to your blog? Yes, AB, when A is replaced with a number that reads as 1B, I had hoped you'd pick up on that. 221B, not very difficult but then that would be for me I sup-<p>

Sherlock was interrupted mid flow, as John had gotten up and crossed the room to stare at him in disbelief for a short period of time until he'd felt that he'd heard enough, and landed a good solid punch just above the detective's right cheekbone. He looked surprised, but the anger and resentment on the doctor's face quickly replaced that with an apologetic, almost panicked one.  
>"Now John I-<p>

Again he was interrupted, this time by a long drawn out scream of 'Sherlock!' as he was tackled to the floor, the ex-soldier pounding the hurt and disappointment of a lifetime into him, of course he wouldn't kill the detective, no matter how much he'd like to for all he'd done, but that didn't mean that John didn't need to do this, oh he needed it badly. Maybe then the ignorant, intolerable, stupid, hateful, deceptive, idiotic, wonderfully brilliant man would understand some of what John had been through. Maybe, but probably not.  
>When did Sherlock Holmes ever understand how other people felt?<p> 


	3. Back From the Dead

This one was finished quite quickly for me, unusual I know but I had a lot of spare time on my hands this weekend. Enjoy!

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><p>The Return of Sherlock Holmes 3; Back From the Dead<p>

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><p>"I understand you must have so many questions for me John," said the nostalgic voice, as Sherlock sat across from the ex-soldier in his flat on Melbourne Street. "About how I 'died', why I didn't tell you, and why I have come back now."<p>

The blonde only stared at him with that same expression; it was somewhere halfway between a burning hatred and a longing. He murmured something about total pricks but said nothing else. It was now that the taller man could look at him in their silence, their momentary pause, and regard his friend with the same awe that he always had done. While it was true John had been affected harshly by the loss of his friend, he had never given up, and he had battled on, just as Sherlock had wanted him to. He held his last promise until he could no longer walk forwards and then some. He was short, this was a fact, his limp seemed to have returned – much worse than before – and he had been neglecting his personal appearance somewhat. It seemed as though he was no longer intent on finding himself a wife, which worried the detective, as John had always been one for the dating 'scene'. He was still quite well cut for a man of his age, but the light from his eyes had been blown out, and the hard scores of frowning outshone the lines of laughter which used to be so prominent on his face.

It pained Sherlock to see him this way, he was never sure why, but when it came to the doctor it was obvious that he cared more than he would like to; and it confused him. Of course he was familiar with the chemical workings of attraction, dilation of the pupils, increased heart rate, heightened breathing, flushed cheeks, and those disgusting animalistic desires which could surface every so often. Feelings, however, were _not _something that he had a grasp on – like how the sight of his companion's laughing face could instantly cause him to smile himself, or how seeing him hurt like this at his hands depressed him beyond much else. Some people might call it friendship, some people might call it love, but the detective did not know what it was, and not knowing was agony to him.

"When I stood on that rooftop, I faced Jim Moriarty for the last time," he began, staring intently into his friend's eyes, elbows on his knees and hands tucked under his chin. "It was our problem, as he called it; our _final problem_. If I could find some way to beat him, some last piece of the puzzle then I would walk free – but if I could not, then I would die. I had two options; he had sent assassins to kill you, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. This was why I made you stand in the exact same spot when I..." he broke off for a moment, pausing to gather his words as he noticed the hitch in John's breath. "When I spoke to you last."

The blonde seemed to be holding in his words until the end, which was a good thing in many ways as it let Sherlock explain fully.

"The only way to call them off was to complete Moriarty's game, to kill myself, to die in disgrace. He made one mistake, the mistake of letting me know there was some other way to call off the assassins; however, once he realised this, he shot himself in the head and I could never rescue you in any other manner than if his men saw me jump." A small smile played around the edge of his lips as he continued. "But that was just it, if they _saw me jump._ They didn't have to check if I had died, why should they? A fall from that height without anything to break it was most definitely fatal."

"But you did have something to break your fall." John choked out in response. The reaction surprised the detective a little, but from what he knew of the doctor, he wouldn't have been able to say nothing for the entirety of their meeting.

"Yes, it was the garbage truck. I jumped into it; if I made you stand where you did, then the assassin wouldn't see me hit the floor either. They would have to focus on both you and me; just watching me make the initial jump would have convinced them well enough. Of course, simply jumping into a truck of garbage and repositioning myself on the floor before you came around the corner – which reminds me, that cyclist deserves a medal, it was entirely unplanned that you'd be hit but it really helped make things more convincing – would never have been enough. I had to make you think I was really, truly dead so that you wouldn't betray yourself and put your life in danger. No, I had to really disappear. _Rhododendron ponticum, _the symptoms of its toxins include weeping or leaking eyes, shortness of breath, tight chest, and a slowed heart rate. Of course that itself wouldn't fool a trained professional, so I placed a rubber ball under my arm, it cuts off the circulation completely – no pulse when you checked me. The blood I took the liberty of removing from the morgue earlier that day when I realised my death was most likely immanent. And there you have it, one living corpse."

It was silent for a very long time. John was taking in everything that Sherlock had said to him and thinking it over, trying to make sense of it all in his head; to make piece together what had happened. 

"But then, what about your autopsy, you were confirmed dead. And I was one of," he paused, trying to compose himself. "One of the coffin bearers; there was definitely a body inside it."

The brunette didn't respond for a long while, he wasn't sure how his friend would respond to knowing he'd buried another man; buried Moriarty.

"It was... It was him, John. You buried Moriarty – that's why his death hasn't been reported. No-one knew, and no-one was looking for him. I am truly sorry for that, and as for the autopsy, it was Molly. Molly performed it. The first people around me when I 'jumped' were two homeless people and a couple of St Bart's staff, they knew, they were briefed on how to play on the bewilderment and shock of the public to make it believable."

Again that awkward stretch of silence engulfed them both.

"Why?" came the quiet mumble several minutes later. John swallowed hard, and licked his dry, chapped lips before speaking again. "Why did you tell Molly, and not me?"

Sherlock tapped his fingers impatiently against the arm of the chair he was sat in. He was tempted to point out that he'd already mentioned this and that the doctor was being dense by not noticing this, then he thought better of it.

"Because, John, if you'd known, the temptation to see you again might have been too much; I would have never been as careful as I was, and you would never have been as convincing in your grief. They say that an actor is at his best when he does not know he is acting."

For a while, John just seemed to focus on his breathing, closing his eyes and trying to bring his thoughts together. There was the typical atmosphere of London surrounding him, cars, people, the low cloud and patter of the first few raindrops against the window. Did Sherlock not realise how much he'd missed him? If he'd been checking up on him surely he'd have heard some of the things the doctor had said, some of those _embarrassing _things. Perhaps he'd missed them, or he simply chose not to take anything into account. How he'd missed him, how he'd cried into his pillow at night, slept in Sherlock's bed for a few weeks until the smell of the other man had all but disappeared, kept his coat and told his skull his life story; all in an attempt to rid himself of the guilt of being unable to protect his best friend. Before he knew it, the rain was pouring outside, crashing down on the windows.

"You should stay here." He said eventually. Sherlock made to protest, but quelled it, it was true he didn't really have a place to stay, not that he really wanted to leave, and Moran might spot him now that he was well and truly aware he had returned to London. "It's raining, and..."

John trailed off, staring out of the window, the street seemed to clear almost like magic once it started raining, there weren't even any cars, people tended to think that rain brought out more drivers but cars were one of the slowest forms of transport in London and everyone knew it. A few businessmen and businesswomen still walked past in their heels and Italian leather shoes with their black coats and their black umbrellas. Sherlock patted him on the knee, trying to bring him out of his escapist version of the world around him, where he didn't have to think about anything or anyone.

"And what John?" the suspense in the detective's voice was evident.

And what indeed? What should he say? I missed you, I need you, I can't be without you, and I love you –

"I don't want you running off again... getting yourself," he swallowed hard. "Killed."

Sherlock pawed at a bruise John had left him below his left eye while he let his mind wander into free thought. He'd been hoping the doctor would offer him a place here for the night. He wasn't sure why, he was going to protest when the blonde said 'you should stay here', though he knew it would have been weak at best; for some reason he was compelled to know the motives behind it. He wanted the other man to want him to stay, he needed him to want him to stay, and nothing short of what John had just said would have sufficed.

"Of course I'll stay John." He responded, blue eyes coming back into focus on his friend, with a smile on his lips. "How could I refuse a night in with my friend? It would feel un-natural, seeing you in an apartment like this and then leaving to stay elsewhere."  
>The blonde smiled in response, and chuckled, it evolved into a laugh, and the detective joined in, soon they were both in tears trying desperately to get their breath back.<p>

"If Mycroft was still spying on me," John managed to choke out in between wheezes. "People would have even more reason to talk."

"But of course," came the similarly breathless response. "My brother has always loved those gay TV dramas."

This prompted another round of laughter, and well into the night they exchanged jokes and pleasantries as though nothing had ever happened between them. It was tinged with bitterness, but it was familiar. As Sherlock fell asleep, and John dragged him into bed, the doctor remarked that only a good chat and a half bottle of whiskey could make him pass out like that. There was only one bed, but they'd had to share before, and really it had never made either of them uncomfortable. If anything it felt more natural than staying in separate rooms. The doctor set his alarm for work at the clinic first thing in the morning, 5am, and left an envelope under the bed, addressed to Sherlock. With a sigh he changed into his pyjamas and clambered in next to his friend; his only real, true friend – the friend that had come back from the dead.

* * *

><p>Sherlock woke at 11am, feeling somewhat groggy, but comfortable. The silhouette of John was still echoed slightly by the sheets next to him, and the lack of the doctor's coat on the door told the detective that he'd gone to work. Yes work, his companion would have a menial, boring job now that he'd been going on without the brunette. Something sticking out from underneath the side of the mattress caught his eye, nice paper, addressed to him. It had been deliberately left there to ensure he read it. Well, he should be polite and do as was asked of him for once.<p>

_Sherlock,  
>It's only been a couple of months since you disappeared. I still expect you to come thundering in one day with a harpoon in your hands and demand a cup of tea. But it never happens. I still make two cups every morning you know, yours goes cold, but I can't bring myself to clear it away until I go to bed at night. I don't think I can live here much longer, the place brings up too many memories for me, but you were right about the skull, he's a great guy to talk to – before you try to correct me I know it's a male skull, I am a doctor remember. I met a girl, her name's Rebecca, and we've been out twice, but honestly, I can't decide what's more irritating; her dog or her. She insists on bringing that thing everywhere with her. Sometimes I wonder if she's really dating the dog and I'm going to become its PA.<br>I miss you, so much. I don't think you realise truly how much you have done for me, and what would have happened to me if you never came along. You're everything I wanted in a friend, a companion, and come to think of it – I'm aching with the loss of such a presence in my life. I'm nothing without you Sherlock; I can't even solve simple cases. You'd find it funny if you could see me now, practically a widower. People keep asking me how I'm coping with the loss of my 'life partner', though I find it pretty ironic that they mean something else, but the term fits you pretty well._

_John_

There was nothing else included with the letter other than a small note written on the inside of the envelope.

_The next one might be a little corroded._

"Corroded..." mumbled the detective out loud. John meant back at 221B, the chemicals there, Sherlock was always spilling hydrochloric acid on the table. Grabbing his coat from the end of the bed where the doctor had kept it these past years, the tall man made for their old apartment with haste.


	4. Absolute Zero

I wanted to thank 'Electryone' personally for giving me a review that made me smile a lot. I appreciate all of the story subscriptions, and I hope I haven't disappointed anyone so far. There are a few more John/Sherlock hints in this chapter. I'm sorry that it's going to take a while to really get into that, but the theme of John's notes will continue through the next few chapters with a climactic result. However I need to make sure that the loose ends get tied up and that relations with the main characers involved in his and John's life are included. Hurray for Mycroft! Next chapter will have more of him too, with a little bit of Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson thrown in for good measure. Then we start getting to the mushy stuff, I promise.

* * *

><p>The Return of Sherlock Holmes 4; Absolute Zero<p>

* * *

><p>The clinic might not have been the most exciting place for John to work, especially when things were so awkward between him and Sarah, but he needed the money, especially now that he'd no doubt be feeding Sherlock for a while – unless Mrs Hudson was planning on taking him in. The doctor doubted that she actually knew anything about it, but then again, Molly did, so it wouldn't be too much of a stretch for their landlady to be in the loop. The thought of it made his blood boil, it felt like a betrayal, he couldn't be trusted to keep his best friend come love interest's secret. But John knew that was ridiculous, the detective had done it to protect him and the others, to defeat Moriarty and buy himself time to clear his name, and surely the blonde couldn't condemn him for that? Maybe he shouldn't, but he would try.<p>

He wondered how far his companion had gotten with the task he'd been set. John had made the clues to the notes' locations very simple; simple enough for someone who _wasn't _Sherlock to understand. The aim of the game wasn't to make the brunette think, or test him; it was to get him to take notice and to revisit places where something important and life-changing for John had happened, all thanks to the detective's presence alongside him.

Glancing at the clock the ex-soldier mustered a sigh, he should be picking up the second note about now; provided there wasn't a big fuss with Mrs Hudson.

* * *

><p>It had been fairly easy to discern where the next letter would be. Of course the doctor would send Sherlock to their old flat, where else was better for something like that? The detective had reasoned that the notes had been written from when he 'died', as John's way of coping with the loss – things he hadn't said while the brunette was there were being written down on paper in the hopes that maybe it would alleviate some of the guilt or regret. His pace quickened at this thought, steps passing him two at a time while his old landlady chastised him from the bottom, things like 'is it safe for you to be here yet', 'are you listening to me', and 'have you spoken to John'. There was no attention paid to her; there seldom was. He wasn't sure exactly why the thought of the doctor's emotional anguish incurred such haste in him, but it did, and the detective felt heat rise to his face, his breaths shortening and an aching sensation in his chest – he must be ill from standing out in the rain.<br>There! Lo and behold, another letter, this one – Sherlock assumed – must have been passed to Mrs Hudson for safekeeping, and she was told to place it on the table tucked under the edge of a stock bottle of acid if news of the detective ever reached her. How he hadn't noticed it before was beyond him, though he had been focused on a more _pressing _matter.

Fervently he tore open the envelope, hands shaking for an inexplicable, unidentifiable reason.

_Sherlock,_

_ The newspapers finally stopped printing stories about you today. I know because I can read them again without having to try and get past the front page. They still show documentaries on the TV sometimes; I don't watch the TV anymore._

_I miss you._

_I had to move out of 221B, Mrs Hudson wanted me to stay but sleeping in another man's bed is only so good as long as it still reminds you of them in a positive way. I kept your coat, but I never wear it, it seems like a bit of a sin really. Rebecca noticed the way I look at it when I'm thinking back on the adventures we shared, she complained about how much I still talk about you – but how am I supposed to deal with it if I pretend none of it ever happened? She doesn't call me anymore._

_Sometimes when it comes to you I think I... Never mind._

_John_

This time the clue read '_It's the snail.'_

Sherlock chuckled, it was just like John to make the clues so obvious, and clearly trying to make the detective work for it wasn't on his agenda. The notes were so heartfelt, and it pained him severely. As much as people told him that he didn't have a heart, that he was a monster without a care for a single other person in the world, Sherlock knew they were wrong. He did care for another person, for one other person, for John Watson. Exactly how deep his feelings ran, he didn't know, he couldn't figure it out – too many variables; it was detestable.

Mrs Hudson had just reached the top of the stairs to question the detective further about why he'd come barging back into 221B without any kind of warning, and ask him if he wanted to get himself killed for real this time, when he span around and practically flew down the stairs and out of the door; leaving the poor woman to simply stare.

* * *

><p>It was lunch time; John always visited the crime scene at lunch time, so that he could try his best to continue the investigation. Lestrade had kindly enough allowed him free reign even though by now there were hardly ever any officers around. He leant against one of the white pillars making up the ornate frontage of the house, next to the grand oak doors which – although plain – were crafted with obvious care and precision. It was cold, but at least it wasn't raining like it had been for most of the morning, and there, on time as ever, Sherlock came storming through the main gates up to the house. He was in such a hurry that John half expected some other more interesting crime to have occurred somewhere.<p>

"John!" he shouted a little too eagerly, a little too hastily, and he reminded himself to approach the situation with professionalism. "Why did you call me out here? No, don't answer that, we're here to solve the case. Simple enough really, but I assume you need me to persuade the 'big dogs' that your line of enquiry is worth their _precious _time and effort."

It was said with that usual distain and bitterness that the detective seemed to hold for all officers of the law bar Greg. A smile played on Doctor Watson's lips, it was his Sherlock, and he was back. It was almost enough to make him forget the entirety of the last 2 years; almost, but not quite.

"Well done, of course that's why you're here idiot." He grinned at the brunette, who offered a similar expression in return. Only John ever called him stupid with such conviction, it was amusing and endearing. "Look, we need to sort this thing out so I can go back to sitting in a canteen drinking tea on my lunch breaks."

Sherlock took the liberty of looking around swiftly, there was no sight of anything particularly suspicious, and he doubted that Moran would want to risk exposing himself any more than he already had by killing him in broad daylight at a crime scene. So with a nod they headed inside.

"No sign of Lestrade?" he asked as they walked, though it was a bit more of a statement than a question.

"Yeah he's not coming up today, the place is empty for the next couple of hours apart from us and the superintendant who I asked to meet us here so that we could piss him off personally, rather than have him hear it from someone else."

They rounded several corridors, and up a large grand staircase with matching smiles plastered on their faces, until they reached the room where Peter Miles had been found dead.

No sooner had they entered than the superintendant – a plump, balding man with glasses and a serious need for a stronger deodorant – made to shoot Sherlock down, the detective however cut him off with a 'shush' and pointed at the pine bed-side table.

"The tickets were from a holiday to Fiji, he took a friend as you can tell by the number of tickets – not enough for him to be taking his family, no it was a 'business' trip. His partner in all of his extortions, Sebastian Moran, was to go with him." Swivelling himself around quickly, next he gestured to the table that the superintendant was leaning against. "The doctor's notes say explicitly that he shouldn't venture into the sea due to his allergies to several poisonous animals, including the Marbled Cone Snail. Moran was a bit of an enthusiast when it came to marine animals, he would have been able to acquire one such snail on his trip." Next was the aquarium. "That tank requires constant attention, you can see by how new the filter is that he recently changed it to cater for salt-water creatures – that is Moran, Miles could never do it himself, he was disabled and his family knew little about this sort of thing. So, a few weeks after their trip Miles reaches into the tank to remove the mollusc creatures into a bucket for cleaning purposes when he gets a nasty sting from one of the sea-snails. Symptoms of Cone poisoning include numbness, tingling, swelling, paralysis and ultimately inability to breathe." He smiled, winking at the large man stood in front of him, who simply gaped in disbelief. "You'd never find evidence of the poison if you didn't look for it specifically. Quite clever, but also quite a slip-up on Moran's part – he didn't count on John piecing things together, and he definitely didn't count on my return."

The superintendant said nothing, and John tried his best to hide a smirk, the overweight man simply nodded and muttered a gruff 'right then, I'll tell forensics' before he was on his way. He left the room, and Sherlock turned to face his companion curtly and bowed slightly.

"Seems you haven't lost your touch then." The doctor noted fondly.

"Ah, but you have improved a great deal John." The compliment was unexpected and had the ex-soldier a bit taken aback. "You had the right idea, you solved it, but you just lacked that little bit of extra information and how to explain it in a way the police would listen to." The brunette looked into the blonde's eyes with an intensity neither had met before in their lives; the power of the tide met the unmoveable mountain as blue locked on grey.

They stayed like that for a while, neither one saying anything to the other, and the distance between them somehow becoming more and more intolerable. It was as though the heat in the room just kept on rising, far past feverish, far past breaking point – that would explain why both of them were so red in the face, right? That would have to be the reason; someone was messing with the heating, changing the temperature in this one little micro-climate. It wasn't clear when it happened, but they had somehow reached a point where they were stood close together, almost touching, close enough to hear each breath, to maybe even count the hairs on each eyebrow. It seemed as if neither of them wanted to break the comfortable silence, and the anticipation, but Sherlock uttered a low whisper, as though to speak at normal volume would dispel whatever magic was at work.

"John I –

He couldn't finish his sentence before they were interrupted, the click of expensive shoes on the wooden floor of the corridor came to a stop outside of the room and the door was swung almost from its hinges, a black umbrella was glimpsed first, and the form of Mycroft Holmes sauntered in. The temperature immediately dropped, they were talking somewhere along the lines of -273 Kelvin; absolute zero. Somehow they had leapt back from each other in an instant, from where they had been so close before, to several feet apart.

"Mycroft." Sighed Sherlock, feigning his usual disinterest in anything that had to do with his brother.

"Sherlock." Replied Mycroft, his trademark satisfied half-smirk on his face. It was irritating at the best of times, now even more so it would seem. "You neglected to tell your own brother of your survival? Shame on you, mummy was quite distraught."

"I'm sure." The detective didn't even look at his brother and was cold in his responses, John shuffled his feet around in agitation, what had the brunette been about to say? It must have been important, and the doctor thought he might still be having palpitations from all of the positively filthy thoughts that had been running through his mind only moments ago.

"Come now, Sherly, you don't want to keep her waiting do you?"

The blonde practically snorted at this use of nickname, it was definitely worth all the times Sherlock had blamed his sister's shortening of Harriet to 'Henry' for mistaking her for a man. Wait, keep her waiting? Was Mycroft saying that he was taking Sherlock off to see his mother? The doctor wasn't sure he could deal with having the detective torn from his side for any length of time right now.

"I didn't tell you _brother_, because I've been reliably informed that if it weren't for you, things wouldn't have been such a struggle for me."

There was silence for a while, John felt his cheeks burning, he didn't want to be the fuel for another family feud – those things were bad enough as it was in the Holmes household.

"She demands to see you Sherlock. There is no negotiation to be had here."

It was odd, how they were brothers and yet Mycroft reacted to Sherlock's return with less intensity of emotion than John had done, the blonde pondered this, but he realised that to the Holmes' it really was a bit of a sin to display affection in that manner. Maybe Mycroft was secretly overjoyed, and happy he could feel a little less guilty – though why he should be allowed to the doctor would never know.

"Fine." Sherlock's response was short, but it seemed that even he wouldn't refuse his mother's wishes. "However John comes with us."

The ex-soldier's eyes widened and he looked frantically back and forth between the two men.

"Wait what? No he doesn't mean me! Do you Sherlock? Oh God you mean me, I don't think I –

He wasn't allowed to finish before the older Holmes brother interjected.

"I wouldn't have it any other way I _assure _you."

Before any more protests could be made, the Holmes' made to leave, and Sherlock grabbed John by the arm as he passed, making it perfectly clear that the doctor would be accompanying them.

What kind of hell was he in for?


	5. Family Ties

A/N: Beemer = BMW

BMW (really?) = A make of car, often associated with businessmen and businesswomen (the clue is in a lot of the prices)

The ranks of the Police Constabulary of London (which are relevant to this story) are in order:

Sergeant, Inspector, Chief Inspector, Superintendant, Chief Superintendant

(The commissioner holds the highest rank in the department.)

A small apology – this week may not be as frequent with updates as I am in the middle of preparing for my examinations and organising my notes from my A-level science studies. So much work and so little time to spare!

I want to thank everyone, however, for the encouraging reviews and the story subscriptions! It makes me really happy to know that people enjoy my writing; I will try to keep you entertained to the best of my abilities!

(I hope you all like my representation of Mrs Holmes. It was very difficult to decide on how best to portray her.)

* * *

><p>The Return of Sherlock Holmes 5; Family Ties<p>

* * *

><p>Sitting in the back of a Beemer, looking out of tinted one-way windows was not the kind of evening John had expected to be having. He had thought that he and Sherlock would go back to the apartment on Melbourne Street, and talk about the plans and preparations that were still to be made so that the detective could be 'released' into the general public. There was so much to do, this 'Sebastian Moran' needed to be dealt with, and of course there was the matter of whatever evidence the brunette had uncovered in his defence being processed and presented to Scotland Yard, the press, and any other big-wigs that wanted to stick their noses in.<p>

Snorting with disdain the blonde turned to his companion.

"Why exactly did you bring me? Why can't you have your family tiff without me?"

The response was through gritted teeth, snide, as though Sherlock was resisting the urge to spit in John's face – it was clear that when their mother came into play, his contempt for his brother multiplied tenfold.

"You're insurance, so that my _brother_," he choked out the word brother as though it were acid on his tongue. "Will behave himself."

The detective tried his best to gather his thoughts together, into something comprehensible. It wasn't often that he found himself unable to make heads or tails of the situation, but every trip to the home he was raised in brought these _feelings _up that messed with his ability to think. Having John sat next to him after all of the crazy ideas and – again those stupid _feelings _that had been firing his heart didn't help.

"What am I supposed to expect, Sherlock?" doctor Watson's voice floated into his mind, bringing him out of his stupor.

"Expect, John?" asked the brunette, with some surprise. The blonde shifted in his seat awkwardly.

"I mean from your family. Are there things I shouldn't do so I don't, I dunno, get shot or something stupid?" this enticed a smirk from the detective.

"It's only my mother, no other family left. Do we seem the types to shoot you?"

"Well, you nearly have twice, you're mad as a hatter, so yes, you probably would shoot me."

The two men laughed slightly, Sherlock had seemed to relax a little in his friend's company, and truly he was glad of John's presence. It would calm him somewhat.

They approached the house, every muscle in the detective's body tensed for a moment, and he remembered to detach himself and relax. It was only a small place, the house was one that his mother and father had, allegedly, bought together and she refused to leave because of that. It was plain, as was the interior, mostly creams and browns; the living room still had its tasteless floral wallpaper and their old grandfather clock. Every other room in the house moved forward in time, but that one stayed – their mother had described it to Sherlock as his father's favourite room, and the one in which he passed away peacefully on a crisp October morning.

Mycroft had a bottomless pocket, and he offered her much nicer, much bigger places, with no need to pay for the bills; their mother had no interest in these sorts of things. She valued the _sentiment _contained in that old house much more than she valued anything else.

This was the main reason above all that Sherlock detested meeting with his mother for anything other than an emergency – this did not fall into that category in his eyes. She taught him to be so detached, she taught both him and his brother that sentiment can only destroy a person, and whatever it builds over a lifetime will be torn down in an instant. The older Holmes brother remembered a time when their mother laughed, danced and sang, before their father died; this was while she was pregnant with Sherlock. All that the brunette knew of his mother was a cold, calculated woman, who would laugh at him if he said he was homesick or lonely.

Never once did he think of her as a bad mother, or a parent he would have lived without; what might have seemed harsh to some people he truly thanked her for. She'd ridden him of the idea that emotions were defining of a person, that you couldn't overcome them with intellect. Yet here he was, struggling with them as always, fighting a losing battle, and he knew that she would see it.

"Sherlock?" John was shaking him slightly, they were stood outside the old wooden door, with a little glass window and a floral motif; when did that happen? The detective snapped back to reality with a painful thud as though he'd been punched in the shoulder. Oh, he _had _been punched in the shoulder. "Sort yourself out would you?" the doctor chastised. "What's with your brother and his stupid superiority complex anyway? Turning up before us instead of with us..."

"He'll be trying to talk sense into our mother I imagine." Sherlock's response was stoic at best, he'd reverted straight back to the man he was when Doctor Watson first met him, empty and unfeeling. It was unnerving, as though the last 3 years of his life had never happened, save for that one small flicker of life that was ever present in his eyes. The door before them creaked open without warning, and Mycroft stood in the doorway.

"It's not polite to keep people waiting." He pointed out, glaring at his brother somewhat.

"Have you gained weight?" came the robotic reply, though a little of the detective's temper seeped through.

"Oh just shut up and stop behaving like a 5-year-old. I can see you've gotten softer Sherly, whatever will mummy say?"

"I'm sure she can decide that for herself."

* * *

><p>Scotland Yard was usually a relatively dull place of work, and today, Greg Lestrade was sure, would be no exception to that rule. That was until he was called into the superintendant's office. He'd done well for himself in the past couple of years, he'd split with his adulterous wife finally, and had been promoted to Chief Inspector. It wasn't a huge leap, but it certainly helped. Straightening himself out he cleared his throat and prepared to enter.<br>Greg was of an average build, with mostly greyed sandy hair. His face was often forlorn and tired, especially since the death of their greatest asset – he couldn't help but blame himself somewhat for that, even if there wasn't much he could have done.

"You wanted to see me sir?" he asked, it was forced, practiced, he didn't like the superintendant at the best of times; the superintendant liked him even less now that he was in danger of losing his job to Greg. The sweaty, overweight man started at him from over his glasses and motioned for the chief investigator to sit down, he did as was asked.

"Are you aware of the situation regarding that dammed idiot, Sherlock Holmes?"

Lestrade's heart felt as though it had leapt into his mouth. Sherlock? What about him? If the superintendant was just talking ill of him and had no news then the inspector wasn't sure he would be able to refrain from retaliating.

"No, sir." He responded, this time it was noticeably awkward, hissed out through gritted teeth. His superior turned to the projector screen on the wall behind him and clicked play on a remote control. There was Sherlock, in the flesh, solving a case no more than 12 hours ago – and he was with John. It was almost too much to bear, and Greg found himself grinning like an idiot.

"I don't know how he did it, but he's still been exposed as a fraud, and I want him caught and brought back here, understand?" the superintendant glared at Lestrade, he meant what he said, and would never have asked the inspector to perform the task if there was someone more suited. There was nothing that the older man could have said to ruin Greg's mood, and with a curt nod he almost leapt from his seat and was quickly away. Now what would he do? There was no way he was going to let them take Sherlock in without a bit of a fight. How could he get to him first, warn him - there was no doubt some kind of evidence in his favour that he might want Lestrade to distribute or present at a hearing. He was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly walked into Sally Donovan, who was having some kind of heated debate with Anderson.

"You alright sir?" she asked slyly, eyeing him up as though she knew there was something going on, something she could use to her advantage. Anderson gave him a similarly inquiring look, a slight smirk playing on the edge of his lips. "Got some new girlfriend waiting for you?"

Lestrade eyed them up for a moment, an internal turmoil raged, he would need their help, but neither of them cared at all for Sherlock Holmes.

"No, Sally, look, it's Sherlock." He paused, taking that final leap of faith, no matter what anyone said about them, Donovan and Anderson were good officers who were only doing their job. "He's back, and the superintendant wants me to bring them in." He paused, waiting for the usual 'well do as he says' type of comment that would come from them. It never did, and so he continued. "I figure he wouldn't come back without a way to clear his name. I'll bring him in, but I want to give him that chance first. If I'm going to find him, I want your help, but you have to trust me on this."

There was a pause, it was clear that neither of the other officers liked this idea very much, but they were nothing if not loyal, and so Anderson mumbled a 'he'd better be grateful' and Sally nodded with a resigned sigh.

"Okay, but if he can't prove we were wrong, he's getting the same treatment as every other criminal we deal with."

That was as much of a positive response as Greg needed, and soon they were all clamouring for their coats and making their way hastily out of the building.

_Finally._

* * *

><p>It wasn't what you'd call a 'normal' family get-together; but that was never what John had expected. The four of them sat in total silence in the living room from yesteryear. John sat uncomfortably in an old worn armchair, sipping tea from the delicate teacup he had been handed in an attempt to take his mind away from the situation. Sherlock hadn't touched his – which was unusual for him. In great British tradition, they were avid tea drinkers, Mycroft and the detective. The older Holmes brother had long since finished his, and their mother simply stared at her youngest intently. The ex-soldier wondered if this was what their meetings always consisted of; hours of silence, followed by some kind of summary and then away they went.<p>

He took this time to really look over the woman who sat in her own armchair, which he assumed was her late husband's, directly across from the sofa which harboured her children. She was tall, and although she was old, she was clearly very beautiful. Her hair was dyed a honey brown to cover the greys, and John assumed this was probably close to her natural colour before age claimed it from her. There were the lines of laughter and sadness that grace the faces of older generations, but they were not as pronounced as you might expect; it showed how detached her partner's death had made her – without the change in facial expression that displays of emotion brought she had been spared a lot of the deeper lines. Even though she was beautiful, she dressed quite plainly. The doctor had almost expected some kind of tyrannical businesswoman in heels and a suit twenty-four seven. She wore slippers for indoors, brown and old – comfortable he guessed. It reminded him quite a lot of Sherlock, who stuck to pyjamas and dressing-gowns on days when they stayed in the apartment. She had the look of the generic 'old lady', in flesh coloured tights, a loosely fitted below-the-knee pleated skirt in maroon, and a cream jumper. The only parts of her that seemed to defy the stereotype were her shoulder-length locks and her height.

"You're conflicted, Sherly." She spoke at last, and there was a collective intake of breath, her tone was smooth, clipped, matter-of-fact rather than concerned.

"I-

Sherlock was about to protest, when she cut across him.

"Don't try to fool your own mother, boy."

It was silent again, even Mycroft looked considerably uncomfortable, he and John exchanged sympathetic 'I'm sorry, I know you want out of here just as much as I do' looks. It was evident that their mother meant a lot to both boys, but that it pained the older to see her like this when she must have been once so lively.

"You are conflicted." She repeated, and closed her tarnished emerald eyes for a moment. "As much as I have tried to teach you about the lack of value emotions hold, you cannot rid yourself of them completely it would seem."

The detective wasn't sure he should respond, it was useless to try and argue with her, she would see right through him, and he knew she was right by all accounts; he was beginning to _feel_ and it concerned him. However, respond he did.

"No-one can rid themselves completely, mother." He replied, no affectionate undertone, again, matter-of-factly as though this were a trivia contest.

"That may be true enough," she began, and John thought he noticed the detective's face take on an expression of shock momentarily. "However, you seem troubled by your emotions. If it is doubt that I was upset by your loss, you can shake it now. I am not the heartless crone you take me for."

There was nothing else said for a long while, as Mrs Holmes and her youngest son tried their best to each understand how the other felt – but years of separation, and detachment from their empathetic instincts made this difficult for them.

"I missed you, Sherlock. A mother always misses her son."

The weight of that statement was felt by everyone in the room, as though someone had sucked out all of the air leaving them unable to breathe.

It seemed as though she let her shroud drop if only for a second, her expression contorted into one of anguish, then settled itself again. Sherlock stood, and walked over to her, kneeling next to the edge of the chair.

"I missed you too, mother." He took one of her hands in his, and gave it a gentle squeeze before righting himself. It would seem that this was as far as displays of affection would go this time. Mrs Holmes nodded, content with this, and Mycroft also stood, leaving John to bolt upright in his discomfort and put the teacup, still filled with cold tea, down a little hard on the wooden table.

"Goodbye, mother." Offered the eldest Holmes boy, who was greeted with a quick hug, his features beaming, he was clearly satisfied in the knowledge that the most affection was shown to him. John doubted that this was because she cared more for him, but instead it was because he had seen her before, he already knew what she was like, how her feelings worked; she didn't want to expose Sherlock to all of the hurt and pent up regret she had been holding since his father's passing, and what had been added to it after her son's 'death'.

The detective swept out quickly, coat-tails splayed out behind him in the wind as he made straight for the car and got back in. John was stopped in the front garden with an umbrella resting on his shoulder. He turned to face Mycroft Holmes, slightly irritated that he couldn't simply leave after being dragged along for this affair, where he was fairly certain he wasn't even needed.

"I wanted to thank you, Doctor Watson," The other man muttered with a tilt of his head and a pensive smile on his features, the one he wore which meant he was satisfied with the thought processes his brain had followed. With a fluid movement the umbrella was touching the floor, and Mycroft's weight had shifted to his other leg. "For coming here with my little brother. He never shares his troubles as you well know, and I think your presence helped him to remain somewhat more open. You witnessed what one might call a miracle today, for my mother and brother to be in the same room without dispute, and to even have some form of physical contact."

With a sigh the man looked back at the old house.

"I hope now he realises how much he did upset her. Be on your way," John didn't respond, just the patronising voice that Mycroft used when he talked was enough to set his teeth on edge.

"Oh and Doctor Watson?" he called; the blonde stopped but did not turn around. "Do look after him properly this time."

It was almost enough to warrant an attack, but John knew it was true; he had failed at looking after his best friend. Without a word he got into the car next to Sherlock.

"Thank you." The brunette mumbled, and the doctor looked at him in disbelief. "Your..." he paused, unable to think of the correct term.

"Emotional support?" finished the ex-soldier, inwardly laughing to himself at his companion's inability to form sentences related to feelings. All rage he felt at the older Holmes brother melted away in an instant.

"Yes that. It was helpful."

Silence enveloped them, the engine started up, and they were driven away.

"What was your real reason for dragging me along...?" asked the blonde after a while, and the response would be one he had not imagined in his wildest dreams.

"Because," began Sherlock with a pause. "Because you are important, John, and you often say how you wish to understand why I am this way; why I act as I do. I felt as though I owed you at least that, that I had an obligation after all I have put you through, to..." he trailed off, again trying to form the correct words in his mind. "_Let you in, _so to speak."

There was no appropriate response to what he had just been told, and this is why the doctor simply couldn't think of one.

"Don't mention that to anyone though, Sherlock Holmes turning soft, my reputation would be in tatters."

John reached into his pocket and produced another one of the many letters he had written to his companion in the years following his 'death', and placed it on the brunette's lap.

"Don't open it until we've dealt with Moran." He instructed, the timing was integral to the impact the letters would have.

The detective chanced a smirk at the older man. It would seem strange, handing someone a letter they shouldn't open for a long time, but the brunette knew that it was the doctor's way of reassuring him.

"Wouldn't dream of it."


	6. To Fall

Well aren't you lucky! I've gotten some time to myself the past couple of days due to spending a very large amount of time working on my physics folder (which at about 30 pages in is somewhere around 2 thirds complete.) I received an A grade on my Chemistry practical examination, and my Biology paper was today. I hope you enjoy this chapter; we're getting into the johnlock moments now, so let's hope it's been worth the wait – there aren't as many of them in this chapter as I'd first intended, but the next chapter is very fluffy and might just give you diabeetus.  
>Thank you as always for reading and reviewing and for all of the author alerts, story alerts and favourites that you've given me, I am extremely flattered and I shall do my best not to disappoint!<br>Warning! Some hints of Seb/Moriarty, because I'm an angsty teenager.

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><p>The Return of Sherlock Holmes 6; To Fall<p>

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><p>Why would John do something like that? Sherlock wondered crossly as he paced back and forth in the Melbourne Street apartment. Of course he knew how curious the brunette was, and that he couldn't keep himself from sneaking a peek at anything, especially not when it came to a certain ex-army doctor. They were to move back into 221B soon, as soon as Moran had been dealt with and he'd gotten the press release over with so that his name would be cleared. No, the detective couldn't keep his hands away, and now he was trying desperately to keep his mind occupied until Doctor Watson returned from work and he could focus on their plans for Moriarty's right-hand man.<p>

Tentatively he reached into his pocket and took out the letter once more, he'd opened it before he was supposed to of course, and now he found himself aching, literally craving the next. The influx of hormones and foreign sensations had only caused him more distress and anger. How dare John make him feel like this? How dare John make him feel at all; that was something he would have to bring up with his friend – or would he? If he made a big deal out of it maybe he'd never see the other letters, and there were definitely more. Sherlock wasn't sure he could do without them. Slumping onto the hard sofa, he sighed and rubbed his temples, the envelope sat on his knees. He missed his dressing gown, and the old comfortable sofa in 221B. Slowly, as though he were handling a fragile, ancient artefact, he prised the contents away and took it out to read once more.

_Sherlock,_

_ You'd laugh if you could see me now, you know. I'm practically celibate. Yeah, I know! After Rebecca stopped calling, I managed to go on a couple of dates with a girl called Jenny, but she was an air head, a _real _air head. I miss your satisfying conversations. There was Amanda, too, but she got tired of me mentioning you, told me that the death of my 'partner' didn't warrant a rethink of my 'sexuality', she thought I was gay I guess. It's funny, bitterly funny, because the death of my best friend _did _warrant a rethink of my sexuality – but hey you don't want to hear about that._

The detective paused here for a moment, John had always defended his heterosexuality as though it were the one redeeming quality he had. Of course Sherlock knew that wasn't the case, he was brave, loyal, smart, interesting, even endearing in many ways. The detective didn't have fantasies about sex, he didn't think about it very often at all, even when he did it was because someone else had brought it up – he was fairly certain that he didn't have a gender preference. It didn't matter to him what someone had in their pants, only if they could hold a stimulating enough conversation, if they presented some kind of challenge to him, and obviously they needed to be relatively easy on the eyes.

Even a man like Sherlock who identified as asexual, simply because he really never was interested, knew that without some form of physical attraction a relationship simply could not become intimate – it was one of those grounding scientific facts that he was proud of. There had only been two people the brunette had ever desired, one of them being Irene Adler, the second being... It wasn't wrong to admit that you desired your best friend was it? Of course not, he wasn't talking feelings here, that lovey-dovey 'oh you're my soul mate' crap; just desire. He definitely had that in surplus, and it quite revolted him, the kind of thoughts that could creep in just to ruin his flow mid-deduction – as for John thinking that Sherlock wasn't interested in his sexuality – he couldn't possibly be more wrong. With a shaky breath he continued;

_I can't seem to find anyone to fill the gap with, you know? I'd thought that maybe now that I had a 'normal' (and by normal I mean boring) job, I could find a 'normal' (the same definition applies here) girlfriend and settle down; someone to take the edge off of the loneliness. It never works, instead I just find myself missing you more and more. I don't know how much more of this I can take before I tell everyone that I... You know, all those people who think I'm overreacting Sherlock, if only they knew. If only _you _knew._

_John_

As with the other letters there was a clue in this one, it seemed that the next note would be somewhere in the hands of a member of the homeless network. Obviously Dr Watson didn't care too much if someone else were to read it – not that they would, the network was very reliable and they didn't ask questions unless it were for a specific reason. Sherlock had always treated them well – as had John in his absence. They were indeed, trustworthy, but why would he leave it with them? It must be another _sentiment _thing that the detective could not understand. In a final attempt to do something productive with his time he picked up the landline and dialled Lestrade's number – though no sooner had he done so than there was a knock at the door, and a quick glance out of the window, with caution, showed that it was exactly the man he had been hoping to see.

Taking the stairs two at a time the brunette opened the door wide.

"Lestrade!" he noted with a somewhat too cheery tone to his voice. "Excellent timing, I am so _bored _you have no idea."

"Nice to see you too." Grumbled the officer, who followed by Anderson and Donovan, ascended the steps behind the detective.

* * *

><p>Click.<p>

The modified silencer made a wonderful noise as it slotted into place on the end of the barrel of an AWM. The gun was UK made, and had been with its owner on many journeys; not least its tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. Dirty-blonde crew-cut hair sat dishevelled atop a heavily creased brow and eyes raw and tired from days without sleep peeked out from under heavy lids. Sebastian Moran hadn't shaved in days now, though his stubble had not yet become a beard. It looked as though he had become some kind of deranged gun-man, hell-bent on revenge; which was probably quite accurate. The cartridges were placed into the suitcase next to the tripod, .338 Lapua Magnum – they were specialized for damage at long range.

A photograph of one James Moriarty sat on the desk next to him, and he sighed heavily, shuddering as he removed the silencer once more and packed the rest of his belongings. He was lost, alone, afraid, but a man like Moran was more deadly than imaginable at times like this. Revenge was on his agenda, cold blooded, spiteful, passionate revenge. Sherlock Holmes had taken from him something that could never be replaced, and that was the companionship he found in Jim Moriarty. The consulting criminal had been his only friend since he returned from the war, he'd been broken, and violence and the gun seemed to be his only 'normal' way of life – but instead of turning him away the dark-haired man had seen his potential, seen his _talent _and had let him into his ring. So close that the ex-soldier even knew what he looked like, what he talked like, what he smelled like.

Balling his hands into fists, with a roar Seb punched the desk, shattering the wood and splintering his arm severely. He slumped onto the floor, sobbing in both rage and loss, the photo frame fell to the floor and the glass cracked. No matter what anyone said, he wanted to believe that he was right, that whatever he and Moriarty had shared had been mutual, and it had been what kept the boredom of being alive from killing his master until the very end, when Sherlock Holmes took even that from him.

"_Sebastian~" called that familiar, happy voice to him from the doorway, and Moran turned around to face his master, a smile beaming on his tired features, aqua eyes sparkling. Only Moriarty could make him feel so wanted by simply saying his name. "I've done it, I've done it!" began the consulting criminal with glee. "I've got him, he's done for!"_

_Some kind of realisation seemed to dawn on Moriarty's face at that moment, and he stopped his dancing, stood static and still and he turned to his companion with fear in his eyes. "I've got Sherlock Holmes. I have to go see him. Beat him."_

_Moran stood quickly, dropping everything he was holding on the floor. No. They had talked about this, they'd gone over it so many times, and James had sworn that without Sherlock to defeat he could never continue his existence, that it would become so unbearably boring. He'd even shouted at Sebastian, asking him why he couldn't have been his enemy instead of his friend, so that he could bear living into his old age as long as someone like that were there to entertain him, someone _unattainable.

_The ex-soldier was much taller than his master, and well-built, even though Moriarty was in good enough shape, he was slight, and somewhat willowy in comparison. Moran took care not to hold him too tightly when he hugged him, but not this time, this time he held his master with all of the devotion he could feel in his body. It might have crushed him, but the taller man didn't care, as long as he could feel it._

"_Don't." He choked out. "Jim, you'll find something, I promise, I'll make something, I'll keep you happy. Promise me?"_

_The shorter man looked up at his companion, worming his arm free from the hug so that he could put a hand on the side of Sebastian's face – it was the first and last time the henchman would be exposed to something like this from the consulting criminal. There was genuine affection in his expression, and he smiled forlornly._

"_I can't promise you that."_

"_Please."_

"_You know I can't. Life is... Is it worth living, really? Is it!" Moriarty was always so angry at the world, why couldn't he be stupid, have a simple mind, live a simple life without this constant feeling of discontent. "You can promise me though, my most loyal, most faithful partner."_

"_Anything, James, anything."_

"_Bury me, properly, and when you are as bored as I am of this... Hell. Come with me."_

"_I promise."_

_Sebastian relinquished his grip, and he knew this was their final goodbye, he couldn't let his master go like this, they had always talked about how they felt, but nothing had ever come of it, until now, as Moriarty pressed his lips to the ex-soldier's, it was bitter, it was heartfelt, and the hit-man was sure he felt a delicate 'sorry' whispered against his cheek, before they met again, in an explosion of heat, and no sooner had it begun than it was over, and James had gone._

He would keep his promise. Moran would take Sherlock down, and he would finally be free to follow his lover into the unknown, to take the jump, to _fall._

* * *

><p>"So let me get this straight," began Lestrade, pointing to the device on the table in front of him. "This thing is going to make you a free man?"<p>

Sherlock nodded, the three other people in the room stared at him in disbelief, he smirked to himself, oh how he loved the simple people.

"It's a storage disk, for digital information." He elaborated, taking a USB lead out of his pocket and placing it next to it. "500 gigabytes of illegal bank accounts, falsified identifications, records of deals Moriarty struck with his many clients, personal logs of conversations, and even a recording from the security camera on top of St Barts on the night I 'died'."

Anderson, Lestrade and Donovan all seemed to try and back themselves as far away from the disk drive as possible for fear of damaging or unleashing whatever secrets it contained.

"I'm not even going to ask how you got this."

"I won it in a bet."

Lestrade brought a hand to his own face with quite an audible 'slap' sound.

"I didn't mean the di-

He was prematurely interrupted by the detective.

"Yes I know you meant the security camera footage, it was supposedly 'inaccessible'. This being because Moriarty had the footage recorded for his own amusement at a later date – and of course no-one could see it and expose him for who he really was, or else his plans to _burn _me would never come to fruition. Vanity is a terribly destructive thing, and in the end it was James' greatest downfall."

It was suddenly very silent in the room; neither Anderson nor Donovan made a move to say anything against Sherlock's favour, who simply sat with a bored expression, quite pleased with himself. After some thought which seemed to be taking up a lot of his brain power, Lestrade leant forward in his seat and pointed at the small black device.

"I take it you want me to process all this for the papers?" he asked with a sigh, more work, great. Holmes allowed himself a smirk and nodded.

"You know me too well, _Greg;_ so, donate a copy of the information to any reporter of your choosing by the end of the night so that it will make tomorrow morning's edition. If they ask about me, send them to 221B," he took a piece of paper out of his pocket and wrote something on it before passing it to the officer. "This is my IM, I imagine the press will want to talk with the police, send me a text if there is some form of conference, I will attend via webcam as I am far too busy to attend, and I am loathe to do so."

There wasn't much more to be said, so pocketing the disk drive, Lestrade stood and motioned for Donovan and Anderson to leave, they obliged but not before Sally could throw a scathing look at the detective.

"Have you spoken to John?" asked Greg once the other two had been ushered out, he lingered in the doorway for a moment looking back at the brunette man who still sat.

"Of course." The reply was stoic and cold.

"No, Sherlock, have you _spoken _to John?"

The silence that reigned once more was deafening, and the two men simply looked at each other for a long time, one with a knowing expression, the other blank but still somewhat guilty.

"No, if you mean in regards to his feelings on the matter of my departure I have not. I have gone over the details of it with him, but neither of us has elected to bring up the _emotional _area of that affair. I do not wish to approach the subject, if John wants to, that is his action to take."

Shaking his head Lestrade tucked his hands into his pockets in order to rest one over the precious disk drive. A muffled 'pretentious idiot' could be heard coming from his general direction as the door closed behind him.

* * *

><p>It was evening as John returned from the clinic, with some treats from a stop at a small patisserie along the way. Sherlock was waiting in the armchair, he was pensive and clearly in deep internal conflict, the ex-soldier put the paper bag down on the table and took out two tea-cakes before putting the kettle on.<p>

The sound of it flicking off after it had boiled startled the doctor as he awoke from a daydream he didn't realise he'd been having. He wondered if the detective was okay, though he usually said he was even when he wasn't; that was just the way he worked. Setting a small plate in front of Sherlock on the coffee table with one of the tea cakes atop it, and a cup of tea, seemed to bring the brunette out of his stupor.

"Oh," he mumbled absently. "Thank you John." It was more of a robotic, timed response than a genuine expression of gratitude – but Doctor Watson appreciated it anyway. They ate in silence, not that something small like that would take very long to eat, and the taller man seemed to relax more and more since the shorter had brought his company. It was as they sat sipping their tea that an alarm went off, one that Sherlock had set on his phone. Standing abruptly he grabbed his coat.

"Come on John." He made no motion for the other man to follow him, but there was an unspoken rule that wherever the detective went, the doctor would follow. They were both on their way in a matter of seconds, and the brunette made a bee-line for Baker Street. It was then that John knew what was happening, and instinctively he lowered his head.

"Yes, we are going to meet our good friend Moran tonight."

Doctor Watson felt as though his lungs had been crushed, here they were, it was entirely possible that he could lose Sherlock all over again, but this was an obstacle they had to get over in order to continue their lives without the detective being under armed guard 24/7. Even then the ex-soldier doubted he would be safe from Sebastian.

There was an old house across from 221B, which was empty now, one of the foreign assassins had lived there, but had been killed by Moran himself. Miles had lost a great deal of information to Sherlock in a bet, and so Moran had taken him down too as punishment – but now he was angry, and he was panicking, and he would be more dangerous, but far more likely to slip up and far easier to outwit. His usually keen instincts would not be as reliable as they usually were, and they were counting on this to defeat him.

As they reached the window of the room facing 221B, the detective pointed at the window of their old flat. There, as if it were the man himself, was a silhouette – that of the younger Holmes brother. John gaped, and the figure moved. He looked back and forth between the man stood next to him, and the image in the window.

"How...?" he began to ask, before he broke out into a grin and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "That's bloody brilliant."

Sherlock smiled genuinely, it was nice to be appreciated. They were content like this for a while, until both of them spotted movement, a figure crouched in a doorway across the street. They both ducked down and found a hiding spot for themselves in the shadows. Pressing a button on his phone – speed dial John assumed – the brunette listened intently. He mouthed the word 'police' at his companion, who realised he would have set up some kind of agreement with Lestrade or Mycroft whereby they would be waiting for Moran to make an appearance. What they had not counted on, was the sight of the one figure they were trying to avoid appearing in the doorway of the room they were in.

They held their breath, it was dark and they could barely see the man in front of them, but the gun in his hands and his ragged breath told them that this was he; Sebastian Moran. He reached the window, and set himself up, not taking what one imagined was his usual care when putting up the tripod – no he was enraged and wanted this over with. If he had not been so distracted – were those tears in his eyes? – then perhaps he would have noticed his company.

Without thinking, John leapt at the man when his bullet pierced the windowpane and found its mark across from them in 221B. He was quickly knocked back and a solid punch landed against his jaw. Sherlock jumped out from the shadows, and knocked the gun and its stand to the other end of the room. They both watched the mercenary in front of them intently, waiting for him to move. Instead he yelled at John.

"It's not fair!"

Taken aback, the blonde blinked, momentarily he forgot entirely about the situation they were in and about his bloodied nose and mouth.

"You still have Holmes! No-one took him from you – you _bastard._" He spat in the doctor's face, and was greeted with a brick being smashed over the back of his head, the poor wretched man faded into unconsciousness, continually mumbling about how unfair the world was and the name 'James'. Finally, Moran had fallen - at least as far as the law could hold him. The detective made preparations to toss him out of the window – he said it would be the 'quickest way down'. However, John protested.

"He was just like me, but he found Moriarty first. You can't blame him for devoting his life to a man like that. If it had been the other way around, it would have worked out the same."

Sherlock would argue that Sebastian and John were not the same in any way, but for once he found the doctor's pity amiable and conceded. Lestrade and several other officers made their way in and set about arresting the man on the floor.

"Slow response as usual." Noted the brunette.

"Shut up, we expected him to stay on the street like you said." Came the response, but the two men smiled at each other as only old friends can.

"Thank you." It was a sincere appreciation that Sherlock offered, and it was accepted with great pride by the Chief Inspector. "I trust you can take it from here." The detective made to leave, John following behind him as always.

"I gave the information to The Times." Called Lestrade after them, and the brunette smirked as the two men made their way down the stairs as though nothing had ever changed.

* * *

><p>In 221B, it felt like coming home after an extended holiday. Sherlock had already moved everything that John had taken back into the flat, and here they sat, in their old seats, with a skull and a body whose head had a brand new hole for company. A perfect shot – if it had really been the intended target, the bullet would have ripped straight through his brain and out the other side.<p>

Another cup of tea was in order, and Doctor Watson instinctively got up to make it. His walking-stick remained behind, and his limp was lessening by the day he spent in his old friend's company. A sudden pang of an emotion the detective did not recognise surged through him, and he found himself getting up to help.

"Here," he began, passing the milk from the fridge to the blonde. "I remembered this time."

The shorter man simply looked up at him wide eyed, it was as though Sherlock had been abducted and replaced with an alien – a very polite alien. There was no specific moment when it happened; at least not that either man would recall. They just ended up in an embrace, tight, heartfelt, and so longing as though this moment could never be as much as they wanted it to.

"I missed you." Mumbled the shorter man.

"And I you." Replied the taller, with a waver in his tone that John had never heard before. "And I you."


	7. Memory Lane

Phew! Sorry about the extended absence of any updates on here but I have been exceptionally busy the past couple of weeks. Either way here's the newest chapter; this is finishing off things to do with the letters that John had written to Sherlock, and developing their personal connection a bit more. Just going to warn that there _will _be smutty scenes and scenes of a sexual nature coming up in this story. Not neccecarily in the next chapter, but I will warn at the start of each chapter containing these sorts of scenes what is in them.

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><p>The Return of Sherlock Holmes 7; Memory Lane<p>

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><p>Neither of the two men had mentioned anything about the <em>moment <em>they'd shared upon returning to 221B. John had spoken for a little while about Moran, and how he genuinely felt terrible for the man. Sherlock had listened, but he hadn't spoken; there was far too much going on in his mind and with his hormones for him to offer any suitable response. It was new for the detective, something he hadn't ever had to experience before – but the doctor had that ability, some kind of gift that made the brunette feel things he wouldn't normally allow himself to feel.

Doctor Watson had left for work an hour previously, and so Sherlock's boredom eventually set in. 'The Times' sat on the coffee table in front of him, this morning's headline reading 'Boffin's Back', with a much smaller, and much more crushing article pushed underneath as some kind of insult. The article in question was not of significance to anyone in particular, other than the two men who shared a flat on Baker Street.

"Moran madness." Read the brunette out loud, standing and taking the accursed document up in his hands he continued. "Sebastian Moran, a notorious gang member and feared mercenary lunatic was taken into custody on the evening of February 18th – imprisonment seemed to be too much for his deranged psyche to comprehend, and he managed to regain control of his situation only long enough to produce a modified revolver and shoot himself through the skull. Death was immediate, and London can feel safer in the knowledge that another dangerous criminal no longer walks our streets."

It was unfamiliar; the bitter taste of regret, and Sherlock found himself attributing it to Doctor Watson's idea that Moran had been similar to himself. Here was the evidence in itself that disproved that link – the mercenary had not been able to survive without his master, but John had lived on without Sherlock. He was stronger than Sebastian. The detective's mind enevitably wandered to the letter in his breast pocket, and throwing the paper down onto the couch he pulled his coat on and hastily left 221B.

* * *

><p>It was odd, that John should want him to spend his time wandering around London after a trail of letters, but Sherlock did admit that he was curious. There was to be a quick interview at the police station later that day, but he knew that if it came down to it he would gladly pass it up if it meant doing something that the doctor wanted him to.<p>

Why was that?

As the detective stopped to think about it, he found the answers so undesireable that it occupied his mind completely and he almost walked into the very person he had been looking for.

"Jenny." He mumbled, collecting himself. The woman looked at him with suspicion, but smiled in response. Jenny was slight, with a bundle of mousey locks tied loosely back from her face, the grime of the city's streets settled on her skin, and her old parka was falling apart at the seams.

"He told me you'd show up eventually you know." She responded, folding her arms over her chest and patting her pocket. The brunette held out a few notes to her, which she took with glee. "You don't gotta pay me." She began, but Sherlock waved her off.

"I don't suppose you have any idea as to why John would have me running around like this rather than just hand me the letters himself?"

Jenny laughed, it soon evolved into a cough but she paid it no mind. Patting the tall man on the shoulder she grinned; they didn't have to keep up appearances here, they were very much alone on an area of the railway that was little travelled.

"Look at you, Sherlock Holmes can find a couple kids from a footprint, but he can't figure out how his best friend feels." Taking the pristine white envelope from her pocket she passed it to him. "Just read it, and take a look around."

The small woman walked away after this, waving in the detective's general direction with a 'thanks' in response to the money leaving him alone with his thoughts and his letter.

Once he was sure she had left, the brunette could not contain himself and almost demolished the envelope in a bid to discover more about the only thing that left him so completely and utterly in the dark.

_Sherlock,_

_I don't know when it occurred to me just how much you cared about other people – no matter what you liked to say about yourself; or rather say about yourself, because you can't really be gone. You know, this couldn't be more unexpected, the way that losing you has affected me. I can't think, I can't sleep, and I can't even walk properly. It's worse than ever, my limp I mean. I guess without something exciting to take my mind off things it sort of crept back up on me, even though I know it's not a real injury. I haven't done a lot, Lestrade wants me working on cases but I don't know... It's just so, so _you_ and I don't deserve to be some kind of pseudo-replacement. Besides I could never match you._

_I know you're probably still thinking about the first sentence – well, you would be if you were reading this – and questioning my reasoning when I say you care so much about other people. You're no sociopath, Sherlock. Yeah you use people, and you have terrible social skills, but you do understand how emotions work, you just choose not to let yours develop into anything._

_Your brother asked me once, that if even though you could have been almost anything you wanted with a mind like yours, you have chosen to be a consulting detective and help people – and yes, in your own way it _is _helping them – what did that mean about your heart?_

_At the time I had no idea, but now I think I know._

_John_

There it was again; that thing that only John could do to him. Those _feelings _that welled up inside every time he would see the doctor, talk to him, and especially when he read those letters. Maybe that was why he wanted them so much, Sherlock desired the sensation. After so long without letting anyone in, without letting anything out, these small bursts of release were like a drug and he was most certainly addicted.

What did John mean that he cared about other people? How could someone like the doctor have so much faith in him? It hurt to ponder, it hurt not to know what it was John knew, it hurt not to have real confirmation of what all of these things meant.

Jenny had told him to look around once he'd read the letter, and walking without purpose back onto the main streets the detective thought he could see why. He was having his first nostalgic experience – at least the first nostalgic experience that meant anything to him. It was one of the routes he and John had walked down a lot before St Bart's 2 years ago, and one of the most heavily populated by families and the homeless. What the ex-soldier had meant about him caring, he meant that he could see that the way Sherlock helped people wasn't solely for his own benefit – stupid, naieve, brilliant John.

Once the new emotions became too much for him, the brunette shut off again, back to _normal._ Taking a breath to steady himself he studied the next clue.

* * *

><p>Outside St Barts. Where <em>it <em>happened, where Sherlock had to watch, and even facilitate his own death. Now, looking up at the tall building he recalled the final moments as they happened.

"_That's what people do isn't it...? Leave a note." He croaked on the end of the phone, the plant extract was having a serious effect on him, never mind the overwhelming sense of loss and regret that he felt looking down at the figure of his friend and companion._

"_Leave a note when?" came the reply, John's voice was steady but Sherlock knew he was panicked._

"_Goodbye John."_

He'd jumped then, convinced the only person he'd ever cared about that he was gone forever. There was a stinging sensation in his eyes, and the detective was forced to wipe them with his sleeve.

There! The phone box! There was a note, similarly as neat and as untouched as the previous. It didn't take a genuis to realise that these letters hadn't been left long, no doubt either John or whoever was placing them for him had been tracking the brunette's progress; he didn't seem to care, and wasted no time in revealing the next tantilizing morcel of his new addiction.

_Sherlock,_

_We first met in St Barts on January 29__th__. Do you remember? Molly helps me through a lot of this. I remember the first thing I ever said to you 'here use mine', a pretty crap introduction – but one I wouldn't take back for the world. Handing you that phone gave you the tools to look at my life in a way I never imagined and tell me things only my close family know about my sister. From that moment something clicked and I knew I'd never have to look back again. Thank you, for even a short time in your presence was more than I could have ever hoped for – neither of us seemed to think we'd find a flatmate willing to put up with us, but I never once had to put up with you Sherlock Holmes, never once. No matter how many times I tell you you're an arrogant twat, no matter how much you piss me off, how much you scare me when you go and do something dangerous, how you infuriate me, and how much you block me out. For all of those things something good counteracts them, for all your arrogance you are caring, for how much you piss me off you know how to calm me down, for how much you scare me you always give me courage, for how much you infuriate me you amaze me, and for how much you block me out I know I can let you in._

_So please Sherlock, come home, let me in, and let me fix this. Back here, St Barts all over again, we can start afresh._

_John_

Sherlock almost expected the doctor to be stood there on the steps, as though he was reading the letter at the time it was written. All of those things could be applied to John in much the same way as he had applied them to the detective. Doctor Watson was caring, he was calming, he was inspiring, he was amazing and he was the only person that the brunette would consider 'letting in'. Even though this was simply a paraphrase of the ex-soldier's own letter, the sentiment was real, yes, Sherlock Holmes felt all of those things for his companion, and so much more.

He didn't need to think about it to end up inside of St Bart's; the laboritory where they first met. His feet took him there without imput from his brain, and his mind wandered, heart pounding in his chest and blood throbbing in his ears. Deaf and as aware as a corpse, the detective climbed the stairs swiftly and swung the doors almost from their hinges. Molly was working today, and she jumped with a squeak as the crash that followed resounded around the otherwise empty room.

"Sherlock?" she asked timidly, wondering if he had another plan to involve her in, another deception to commit.

The detective didn't reply for some time, instead he simply scanned the lab, an unreadable expression on his face with his mouth agape and panting lightly from his run up several floors. Eventually he came back to himself, looking Molly in the eyes and closing the distance between them swiftly. "Is there a letter?" he asked almost desperately. The woman nodded, pointing to one of the work surfaces. No sooner had Sherlock been close to her than he was at the other end of the room mercilessly ripping the letter from its casing; he read this one while running out of the building, there shouldn't be many more and he wanted to reach the end.

_Sherlock_

_I keep thinking about what Amanda said to me, and Rebecca. Even now, months later, it keeps coming back to me. 'You love him', do I Sherlock? Do I? Is this why you're still haunting me even now? Why I can't sleep? Why I stand outside pubs at night just to smell that stale cigarette smoke? I'm trying my best you know, trying my best to stave it off, to stave off that feeling of boredom and of being alone. The one you would talk to me about sometimes, when I told you that you didn't need to feel that way, and slowly you mentioned it less and less, and you looked happier, more content. Now I am discontented, life is so boring, so dull, patients with hypochondria day in and day out. _

_The grind._

_Come back, please just come back and do something, tell me what's going on in my head, what I'm feeling, and tell me how to stop it._

_John_

* * *

><p>Sherlock didn't know for how long he had been running, or when he had arrived at the graveyard, or when he had stopped and stared at his own headstone for what felt like an eternity; he just knew it had happened. It seemed they hadn't thought to exhume the body yet and be rid of a grave that did not belong to a man named Sherlock Holmes.<p>

He was cold, cruelly so, and numb from all of the emotions he had allowed himself to feel that day. When he thought he could take no more, when he felt as though he might never get what he knew to be the last letter, a hand was placed on his shoulder. He recognised the weight; the strength of the grip and the texture against is coat straight away.

"John...?" he asked, not turning to face the other man who smiled and nodded.

"Yeah, it's me." The reply was similarly quiet and soft-spoken, the smile was tender and yet tinged with a sadness that time had not been able to reconcile.

The feeling of paper against his hand only registered to the detective after the doctor had closed his digits around the letter for him. It was enough to bring Sherlock back to the moment at hand, though he moved slowly and was both terrified and excited, like he was wondering if this next hit would be the one that killed him. So much emotion, so much feeling, he wasn't sure he could take all of it – all those years of hiding it away had not rid him of it, it had simply compressed it until he overflowed.

"I'm going to get us some tea from the shop across the road; you better pull yourself together before I get back."

Sherlock's only friend winked at him and chuckled dryly making his way out of the graveyard. _It's more like I'm the one who needs to pull _myself _together. _He thought to himself with another chuckle and a heavy sigh. This was it, their entire relationship was pinned on this one moment, this one fit of madness that had taken over the doctor – but he would never look back, he would never regret, and now he finally had a chance to do and say all of the things he never did when he lost the detective. He would not lose him again without knowing.

* * *

><p>Sherlock understood that he had a time limit of around 5 minutes in which to gather his wits and read the final note that the doctor had left him. With a deep breath he opened the envelope; this time with care and precision. Unfolding the white paper he looked to the sky for a moment, it would rain later, and then put his attention to what his friend had given him.<p>

_Sherlock_

_I wrote this one by your gravestone you know. I was thinking about the things we used to talk about – you asked me once why I was so upset when someone called you a fraud. It's because you're wonderful, you're special, unique and real. It's because I love you. There. It's taken me until now to get to grips with it, even though everyone treated me like the main mourner, as though we'd been partners in more than business, I didn't allow myself to believe that my feelings leant that way. But they do Sherlock, and it's like an endless gaping nothingness that expands in front of me – my life that is, without you. I love you, I love how you stand in the moonlight, I love your soft curls, your smell, and your crappy violin (though really I'm just jealous), and how you'd wake me up at 4am to follow a lead or make you tea. I love how you 'only have one' friend, and that friend was me, I love your brilliant mind, those little glimpses of emotion – Sherlock if you could see me now you would laugh at me in my weakness. Alone with my memories; any longer and I would follow you into the unknown again – at first I asked why you went somewhere I couldn't follow, I could follow you anywhere but in death, but now I think I realise I could even do that for you._

_I am in love with you Sherlock Holmes, experiment on me, leave chemicals in the biscuit tin, call me stupid – anything, something._

It took the sound of footsteps approaching behind him for Sherlock to realise just how long he'd been spending looking at the note. John had returned, and he handed one of the polystyrene cups to the brunette; it had been a tea house and they were not used to having orders 'to go'.

"Stupid." Mumbled the detective, so quietly that the doctor almost couldn't hear.

"What?" he asked, surprised by the reaction.

"I said stupid." Replied the brunette, turning to face his companion, his eyes were intense, and the vulnerability of earlier had been replaced by the familiar almost emotionless facade; but the burning in Sherlock's eyes always remained, that desire that could melt the core of the most heartless individual. "That's what you said, you asked me to call you stupid, there _are _chemicals in the biscuit tin, and you know I could never experiment on you."

Doctor Watson wasn't sure what to think, this kind of response was certainly very Sherlock, but was it the kind of response he had expected or hoped for?

Certainly not.

The detective closed the distance between them with a single stride and towered over the ex-soldier, it was almost intimidating, almost sexy. Staring intently at John for a while, the brunette's expression softened for a moment before he repositioned his blank mask.

"Do you mean them; the things you wrote?" he asked, never once breaking eye contact.

"I do." Replied the blonde, much more bravely than he had expected of himself, and with such conviction that he was surprised. Swallowing a lump in his throat he took a deep breath. "I love you Sherlock Holmes, and I don't care who knows. I don't care if you don't feel the same way, I have nothing left unsaid."

It was silent, and only the sounds of the cars in the distance were the signs of civilization that could be heard, creating their own melody with the beginnings of the rain and the rustle of the leaves.

Sherlock would not face John for a long time; instead he seemed to speak to no-one in particular. The doctor supposed that this was a defence mechanism for him, if he kept his voice level and allowed no-one to see his face then people would still assume that the detective felt nothing.

"I am not good at these sorts of things, John." He began. "I never have been, it is, regrettably, one of the only areas of knowledge that I lack." _Modest as usual_, thought the blonde sarcastically as he smiled a little in spite of himself. "I don't know what the feelings I have for you are, I can't define them as something that has a label." The brunette allowed himself a glance in his companion's direction.

"You don't have to be able to label a feeling for it to be real." The ex-soldier told him, with a slight frown.

"What I mean to say," began Sherlock as he turned fully to face the other man and cleared his throat. "Is that I can't define how I feel because I have never felt as strongly as I do now. I am not even familiar with weakened versions of the emotions you manage to so selfishly manifest in me." It almost seemed as though the detective were angry with the doctor for making him feel at all, which in essence was true. "But I will say, that whatever it is I have been feeling, when I see you, when I read those letters, and when you confessed to me just now – I want to feel more of it. I want to understand it. I want..." he trailed off, unsure of himself. It frustrated him to be unsure, but it seemed to happen more and more lately; especially in Doctor Watson's presence.

"I want to spend all my days with you, I regret when we are apart, and I loathe the burden I placed upon you when I had to fake my own death. I am not sure of anything when it comes to you, and you know most of all that this makes me angrier than anything else; but right now I want to agree to this – I mean, I would like us to investigate taking our relationship further." He paused, only to take in the shocked expression on his friend's face. "Is that desirable?"

"Do you really need to ask me that?" came the reply, it was confident, as though nothing had changed and John had meant to live this moment for all his life. The doctor was grinning at the detective, the corner of his mouth twitched momentarily into a smirk.

Standing up on tip-toes, the shorter man put a hand on the back of the brunette's neck and pulled him down to meet him – it was a short kiss, sweet and innocent to serve its purpose as a reassurance.

Sherlock looked down at John with shock on his features, it made the blonde laugh to see his companion so animated, and the brunette found himself laughing too, until they both filled the air with the sounds of this unusual reaction to their current situation; the weight of 2 years without each other lifted in that moment with their voices.


	8. Sink or Swim

Warnings for this chapter; mentions of sexual themes, and bit of what I'll call 'mind sex' involving a scene of explicit sexual nature.

Please be gentle, I haven't ever written smut before so this is a new thing to me.

The first section in italics is what John is imagining in his mind in order to... aid himself.

I apologise for the length of this chapter but I wanted to end where I did, the next chapter will be longer I promise. Thank you as per usual for the reviews, favourites and alerts; they mean an awful lot to me and are my motivation to keep writing.

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><p>The Return of Sherlock Holmes 8; Sink or Swim<p>

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><p>221B was quiet; it had been for several days now. John sat in the old, worn armchair and stared at the wall. Every day since their <em>confrontation <em>at the graveyard Sherlock had been busy with a new case or a press meeting or some kind of police inquiry. It was going to be months before he was done with all of the legalities and public appearances to put himself back on the map and truly clear his name – even then he'd be tarred for life by Moriarty's vengeful destruction of all he'd become.

Normally the doctor would follow his companion wherever he went, but they were suffering a multitude of awkward silences and lack of contact. They stood several feet apart where there never used to be distance, and as soon as they came home Sherlock locked himself away in his room or busied himself with some _incredibly important _experiment. Doctor Watson knew he shouldn't worry himself, he knew what the detective was like; he blocked people out, it took him a while to adjust to changes in his personal circle and he wouldn't have any inclination as to how the ex-soldier really felt. But he did worry, that perhaps Sherlock said what he did just to stop conflict, that perhaps he had said it and been so confused by the emotions and the situation that really he hadn't felt that way at all.

Groaning loudly the doctor put his head into his hands and rested his elbows on his knees, rubbing his temples to satiate the burning headache that had begun there. His thoughts drifted to the other man once again, the things he had been keeping in a firmly sealed box at the back of his mind were coming to the forefront far more vividly than he had previously allowed them; now that he felt he might have some chance of seeing them come true. Pondering the way Sherlock's shirts would pull slightly around his chest, he felt his cheeks heat up and imagined he would be deeper shades of red and purple than a beetroot. There was the way that the detective's hair fell about his face, his shoulders, and those shoulder-blades – what John wouldn't do to scatter marks across their edges and claim the brunette as his. His and no-one else's, he wouldn't give him up even if the world came crashing around their ears, he had been through that before and it would never happen again. The thoughts continued on to what it would feel like to run his hands along the taller man's waist, it was so delicate, and it looked so soft; he would waste no time in releasing the detective from his coat and shirt, and even less time getting him out of those trousers, but maybe the scarf would stay – the doctor loved that scarf around his partner's neck. It was such a rich blue, it complimented Sherlock's eyes, and his skin, it became even paler and even more surreal if that was at all possible.

It took him until he let his mind wander far enough to those first moments when he would have the brunette revealed in his entirety for his hungry eyes to eat up, remembering the moment in Buckingham palace where he realised his friend was indeed entirely naked beneath the sheet he was wrapped in, for John to notice that he'd given himself a very uncomfortable companion. He was hard, and it _needed _seeing to.

He felt guilty, even though Sherlock had agreed to take their relationship further he certainly didn't show signs of it and the doctor had never gotten himself into this situation thinking about another man before.

Swallowing the lump in his throat he looked around quickly; there was no-one home, Mrs Hudson was out and Sherlock was at the crime-scene of his latest case. It was decided. Taking his time he undid his belt, sighing in a manner far too filthy at the release in pressure, and tentatively shifted his weight so he could at least pull his trousers and underwear far enough down to make it easy for himself.

Any other time he would have stopped himself then and there, but he'd allowed the thoughts in, and they were no longer obliged to leave him, it was almost painful taking himself in his hand as his imagination allowed him to think of it as the slender fingers of the detective. With a murmur of the taller man's name on his lips John allowed himself to palm, lightly at first, the aching erection that fit so neatly into his hand.

"_Ah, hn, Sherlock!" called the doctor, he was getting so close now he wouldn't last much longer, the detective smirked at him, eyes half-lidded and voice husky._

"_Maybe I should slow down a little, you seem _far _too excited." He purred, slowing the movements of his hand on the blonde's cock, it was teasingly slow, as if he were barely touching and everywhere he did it burned like fire. Doctor Watson bit down on his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood and bucked into his partner's palm, instinctively trying to increase the friction. "No?" asked the calm voice, full of underlying tones of anticipation. John knew he would have to ask, maybe even beg, but he needed the release so badly now, he was so close, and he could feel the throbbing ache from his groin to the pit of his stomach._

"_Please, Sherlock," he started, gasping a little as the brunette ran the tip of his index finger through the pre-cum that had collected on his head; the gasp soon turned into a deep groan as fingers slick with saliva took his member in them once more. He hadn't noticed the detective sucking on them; he'd been too far gone to pay attention to things he had to see, instead of just feel. Again the strokes were slow, tantalizing – and John even attempted to use his own hand to speed things up, but Sherlock chastised him, telling him that if he did that the detective would simply leave him to deal with it himself. The doctor knew that simply wasn't an option. _

_Eventually, after what may have only been a few seconds but felt like an infinite torture the brunette speeded up with his actions, and soon it sent John over the edge, he didn't call his partner's name, there was simply an incoherent jumble of noises falling from his lips as the overwhelming sensation raced through his veins like heroin. It burned and soothed at the same time, and when he eventually came down from his high he slowly came to realise that his seed was spread mostly over both Sherlock's hand and his scarf. The detective was attempting to look displeased, but really the grin showed through._

"_This is your fault for telling me to leave this on." He chuckled a little, pausing only to lap up what was left of the sticky substance on his palm and his fingers, it had trailed down his forearm a little where he followed it with his tongue, and stared the smaller man in the eyes. It was almost enough to make him go again right then and there, but instead the blonde succumbed to sleep; but not before taking the other man in a weak hug so that they fell next to each other on the bed. "I love you." He mumbled into the detective's curls._

When he came back to reality, Doctor Watson found that he wasn't in bed with the man he most wanted to be, he was in their living room; the evidence of his actions quite literally spread over his hand and staining his shirt. Was it embarrassing? He didn't know; it would be if Sherlock didn't want him to think of him that way, in fact, it was pretty embarrassing even without that added factor. Cursing loudly he found the strength to at least attempt to tidy himself up.

A shower had been just what the ex-soldier needed, it cleaned his body, however, it didn't clean his thoughts. A text had been sent to his phone while he washed away as much of the 'dirt' as he could, it was from the very man he'd been previously thinking about.

Need a medical opinion, come to the crime scene – SH.

It seemed as though John wasn't going to get the peace he wanted to set himself straight, with heavily vocalised displeasure he dressed himself and made his way out.

* * *

><p>The actual case had been relatively simple, a double homicide, racially motivated. It was boring by John's standards never mind Sherlock's. The only reason they needed him there was because Anderson was being particularly difficult and wouldn't accept the detective's diagnosis; he argued that a medical professional had to be present. Naturally the brunette's first choice was his small companion.<p>

"Yeah, it's definitely cyanide poisoning." He noted clearing his throat. "Unusual I guess but I'm pretty sure it's worth looking into."

It was amazing, being back on cases, working with the youngest Holmes again. At least, it would be if said Holmes would even acknowledge him.

"Have you guys still not made up?" asked Lestrade, who had seemed to materialize in front of the ex-soldier. The blonde jumped a little, smiling meekly at the other man.

"If you mean about St Bart's, we _made up._" He replied pursing his lips. The DI frowned at him before shrugging a little and turning to walk away.

"Well, whatever's going on hurry up and fix it. He's not as engaged as usual when something comes up between you two."

It didn't take a genius to figure out that Greg was talking about Sherlock. The doctor allowed his eyes to settle on the figure of the taller man at the other end of the room. He really needed to ask, for his own sanity, why nothing was progressing as it should.

The detective himself was having similar thoughts. It wasn't as though he didn't want to be near John, he wanted more than anything to be able to be close to him, to protect him so that he would never have to go through the pain he had done for the last few years ever again. There was just one catch; the doctor had always defended his heterosexuality, what if he didn't want Sherlock to let anyone know that they were together? Were they even really 'together' at all? What if he didn't actually want to be in a physical relationship but more of an emotional one? What if, what if, what if. All these questions were putting the brunette off the task at hand and making it difficult for him to focus on cases. He supposed he feared that the first person he had allowed into his life fully and with commitment would be the one to break him completely. He was terrified of how much the doctor meant to him, he was desperate for him, and yet he could not show his affections. It was like a form of torture, knowing all the things he wanted to try, wanted to do, to share, and then feeling as though the object of the only affections he had ever harboured in his life might not have meant it when he said he loved him. If only his deductions could follow the thought patterns of John Watson, but they couldn't, he remained mostly a mystery to him and that was one of the many things that kept him interested.

With a disdainful sniff at the air, the detective turned to leave, Doctor Watson quickly standing up to follow him. They got about as far as the edge of the road when the smaller man grabbed him by the hand and tugged on it so that he would turn to face him.

"Sherlock, would you just tell me why you're being like this?" he asked, he was concerned – it was a very small change in stance and tone but the detective knew him well enough to notice it.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean." Was the cold response, the taller man trying his best to make use of his full height.

"Stop it." John told him forcefully, angrily. "You know exactly what I mean. If you didn't return my feelings you should have just told me." He spat the words like venom.

The detective's stance softened, he was taken aback – this was why the ex-soldier had been avoiding him? Because he thought that he wasn't interested?

"That's not it John." He began, choking a little on his words.

"Then what?" demanded the other man, it looked as though tears threatened at the edges of his eyes, from anger or hurt Sherlock could not tell, but he didn't like them being there.

"It's because I..." the words wouldn't come, they couldn't form and the detective couldn't rid himself of the feeling that he was drowning and that the doctor would turn around and walk away leaving him to his fate.

"Forget it." Grunted the ex-soldier, averting his gaze. "Forget I said anything; just go back to treating me like a friend."

That statement hurt more than however many times the brunette had been beaten up, drugged, interrogated, and more than all of the comments anyone had ever made in his life. As John tried to relinquish his grip on Sherlock's hand, the detective took firm hold. It was now or never; make or break.

Sink or swim.


	9. Distance

Okay so this chapter isn't really much longer than the last one, but they're setting up the next big part of the plot of the story so you can't really blame me :P

No smut in this chapter, just a bit of fluff and an ending to give a big hint as to the next big focus of the story. I'm sorry for taking a little while to update - I was away in Wales at the weekend with no internet access.

As always thank you all so much for favourites subscriptions and reviews! It means a lot to me 3

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><p>The Return of Sherlock Holmes 9; Distance<p>

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><p>It was agonising, the waiting and that expression that his only friend regarded him with. John Watson was the only person who had ever made Sherlock feel, and now he was going to lose him because of his own inability to voice it. No, that simply wouldn't do. Didn't actions speak louder than words anyway? If that were so why was it that his feet had been frozen to the spot?<p>

Doctor Watson regarded him with disdain, it was clear he thought he had been made fun of, as though perhaps this was some sort of game.

"I don't want to be an embarrassment." The words came out before he realised he had formed them and the detective was shocked at his own outburst. It was as though someone had opened a flood gate and once he had started he could not stop until all of the water was gone. "You know I'm not proficient when it comes to this sort of thing; I don't understand it. I thought that the lack of contact since the graveyard – the _distance _– had been because you had realised that you didn't want me around. I thought you wouldn't want to show people any affection towards me because you were ashamed to be attracted to someone as mutually disliked as I am. Perhaps it had been an overwhelming emotion due to my return that you mistook for something else. I can't reason with myself, I can't logically come to any conclusions about the whole affair and it is torturous."

Quickly the atmosphere became thick and heavy, hot with anticipation. John let everything sink in before he stepped towards Sherlock, taking his other hand so that now he was holding both. Looking up at those blue pools of doubt he couldn't help but smile.

"I told you I love you didn't I?" he asked, earning an expression not unlike that of a puppy begging for treats.

"Yes." Was the monotonous reply.

"Then, do you know what that means?"

Sherlock shook his head, brown curls bouncing with the movement.

"It means I want to spend every day with you, that I want the world to know that you're mine and no-one else's. It means that I would parade you in a chicken suit in front of the whole of London and point at you and say 'that's Sherlock Holmes, the only man I will ever love'."

The taller man simply looked at him with an expression of disbelief, which resulted in John releasing his grip on one of his hands and taking him by the other back in the direction of the crime scene they had just left.

Needless to say, Greg was surprised to see them return that day, even more so hand-in-hand. As he opened his mouth to say something, John shushed him and pushed past towards the room where the body had been found – there she lay still undisturbed apart from the forensics team and Sherlock's quick appraisal. Turning to his companion, Doctor Watson nodded in the woman's direction.

"Tell me something about her." He asked, leaving the other man very confused – but he obliged nonetheless.

"She was a waitress." Began the detective slowly, eyeing John with suspicion. "Her hands are rough from cleaning tables and the crockery on occasion with strong industrial soaps with little time to moisturise after each wash. She has well toned arms and calves from carrying heavy weights and walking or being stood up for most of the day. In her pocket there is still a note pad for scribbling down orders which she had mistakenly taken home with her, along with a pen marked 'The Swan Coaching Inn', not in the immediate vicinity but I believe a new public house on the outskirts of the city. She was in this particular area to meet up with a boyfriend or partner, you can tell by the way she's dressed – nice, not quite risqué enough to deduce that she's attempting to seduce someone, but much better than one would dress when meeting a friend or acquaintance. Conclusion; waitress unhappy with her job gets a new boyfriend who promises her riches and a better lifestyle, she spends too much, borrows too much money – I mean who can afford those shoes working as a waitress? – and he kills her before she runs too high a debt."

It was an odd request, John asking him to run through a deduction about a victim – he had always found it impressive but he'd never requested it. Sherlock turned to face him, and his breath caught in his throat at the childlike admiration his friend regarded him with.

"Amazing." Breathed Doctor Watson quietly, his face breaking into a huge grin. He tugged on the taller man's scarf so that they were nose to nose. "Absolutely amazing."

What followed would be one of the only things that could leave Sherlock speechless; as lips met his, not as softly as at the graveyard, he felt so much doubt fall away from him. John was kissing him, confidently, unafraid, surrounded by people they knew. If he hadn't managed to shake off the shock as quickly as he had it would have been pretty awkward for his companion, as it took several moments for him to gather his wits enough to kiss back. John pulled away though their faces remained close and smiled genuinely for what felt like the first time since before St Barts those years ago.

"Better?" he asked; the other man breathed a sigh of relief.

"Much."

They stayed like that for a minute or so, before Sherlock righted himself and pressed John's hand to his wrist. The doctor could feel his racing heartbeat, and as he looked into his companion's eyes he understood.

He was being confessed to in the only way that the other man deemed acceptable.

A loud cough brought them out of their thoughts as both parties turned to face the man behind them.

"Thanks for the extra information. Gonna have to pull you up for PDA though." He cracked a smile in their direction. "So, I guess Anderson and Donovan owe me £20 each."

It was Greg Lestrade, and although he seemed a little uncomfortable with the situation at hand he offered no form of distaste. The DI had always known somewhat that Sherlock and John's relationship would eventually develop into something like this, though it took until he had seen it to realise what that entailed.

Sherlock smirked at the other man with the kind of satisfaction and togetherness that a fox might greet its prey with. Clearly the kiss he had just shared publicly with his companion had been an ego boost. Great.

"Purely platonic I assure you, Lestrade." He noted with a nod, earning a stifled laugh from John. It was odd, the doctor noted, that Sherlock was so insecure and yet as soon as you wiped those doubts out one by one he became all together too confident. This was proved by a hand colliding with the shorter man's arse as they made to leave the scene – the response was an elbow in the ribs followed by a grunt of pain.

* * *

><p>It was quiet, but warm at two-two-one B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had muttered something about going out for the day and for the 'boys' not to make a mess. Sherlock had not responded and John had smiled and said 'I'll try my best to keep him occupied'. As she well knew, if the youngest Holmes was bored there would be no sparing her walls.<p>

If someone came into the apartment now they would think that nothing had changed, that Sherlock had not disappeared for years while everyone believed he was dead. There was still the globe on the mantelpiece, the deer skull with its headphones, the cluedo board attached to the wall via a knife jammed enthusiastically into its centre, and the ashtray that they'd taken from Buckingham Palace. As per usual the younger man seemed not to have a care in the world for his surroundings and after rearranging something quickly in the kitchen he walked over the sofa before allowing himself to flop into a sitting position where he was facing John; who had long since placed himself in the armchair.

He was frowning, as though he were trying to deduce something about his partner and failing entirely, eventually his expression became blank apart from his furrowed brows though he still focused on the man in front of him. The TV he had turned on moments ago spoke to itself for a lack of audience.

"Calm down Spock, your eyebrows will get stuck like that." Teased Doctor Watson with a grin, Sherlock couldn't hide the little twitch of his lips to show that he had found it at least a little amusing.

"Now is not the time for jokes, John." He chastised. "This is very important."

"Care to share?" There was no reply. "No, of course not. Right."

The detective shushed him before placing his fingers against his lips and elbows on his knees in his characteristic thinking pose; that rather attractive thinking pose. Smirking, Sherlock shifted his weight slightly – John hadn't noticed that he had licked his lips until he saw the expression on his partner's face.

"Oh, no that's not – I mean-

He began, again he was hushed, the other man gesturing for him to sit next to him on the sofa – Watson obliged. He hadn't thought about it before; what kind of a lover Sherlock would be. It was probable that he was brilliant at most sexual acts, he had that kind of silent grace – and performing things like that didn't require any amount of emotion in order to know the mechanics. As far as emotional connections went would he be the type who once he let out some of them they all came rushing through, gushy and clingy? It was doubtful; he was much more likely to be the overprotective type who was very good at using what they had to get what they wanted.

Now that it came down to it, maybe he wouldn't actually be that good when it came to sex – he always said the idea had disgusted him before because it distracted from the important things he needed to save space for in his mind and took up time. Perhaps he'd want to take their relationship slowly.

John was brought out of his thoughts when he sat down next to Sherlock, and felt sure arms wrap around his waist, and a chin rest on his shoulder. The show that was playing on the television was one of those ridiculous chat shows, Jeremy Kyle – why this was fun to watch simply to poke holes in Doctor Watson couldn't understand. Maybe the other man found it amusing how stupid the human race really could be. Breath tickled his ear, and John found himself hoping that his companion couldn't feel the evidence of the excitement that feeling provided him with; he'd always had _very _sensitive ears. A purr emanating from Sherlock's direction showed that he had indeed noticed – at least the reaction hadn't been a negative one.

"Perhaps another time John." He murmured against his lover's ear. "Tonight is important."

Important in what way? Wondered the doctor absently, turning to the television once again, and trying to forget the thoughts that had been plaguing his mind up until only moments ago. In unison the two men chuckled at the woman who was demanding child support from a man who was very clearly not the father. Then it clicked, tonight was important because they were going to share things, this was Sherlock attempting to integrate John into his daily activities, and an attempt for them to act like a genuine couple.

Of course what he did not realise was the reason for being held so tightly, it was because now that the detective had him, he would not let him go, he was afraid to repeat the last few years, afraid to lose what they had.

"Even I can work this out!" John exclaimed while laughing turning his head a little so he could show his appreciation of their current situation – breaking Sherlock out of his melancholy train of thought.

"Even _you_?" he asked jokingly, earning himself a jab in the stomach. They stayed like that for most of the night, until John drifted off into sleep, ever awake, Sherlock carried him – as he was surprisingly light – into what would now become _their _room, and laid him on the bed; resolving to climb in next to him. It didn't matter that they were both fully clothed and would no doubt be uncomfortable in the morning, they had each other.

* * *

><p>Outside, London was cold and the alleyways dark. Across from Baker Street there were several back alleys and passages – one of which was home to two men at this present moment.<p>

The taller of the two was of Indian nationality, thin and gangly but with a menacing stance. The shorter was Russian, stocky and powerful with fists that seemed large enough to crush an entire face with one blow. Both of them wore black suits with white shirts and red ties.

"Are you sure this is the man Nikolay?" asked the Indian man, looking up at the sky for signs of rain or cloud. "We can't afford to go wrong."

"No problem, Aadesh; this is Holmes. I am sure. We take the doctor, and we have all information." Cracking his knuckles to make his point Nikolay grinned menacingly, showing his several gold teeth from a severe lack of care when it came to oral hygiene.

"Good, it better work, the boss will not be happy until we find Miss Adler."

Patting his companion on the back, the Russian chuckled heartily.

"Miss Adler is as good as ours."


	10. Fair Trade

Welcome back everyone!

My exams are done with and as promised here is the next chapter! I've been listening to a wonderful Reichenbach fanmix while writing this and all my feels just fell out. Enjoy, and expect regular updates again from now on in!

I received some wonderful reviews while I was away and really I just have to say that it means so much to me that you've all been so patient, and even that some of you have subscribed since I've been gone for such a long time! I hope the rest of the fiction doesn't disappoint.

* * *

><p>The Return of Sherlock Holmes 10; Fair Trade<p>

* * *

><p>It was odd to be waking at this hour; odder still that he should have fallen asleep in the first place. Most peculiar was the absence of body heat that should have been radiating from a source next to him.<p>

Sherlock Holmes was not one for sleep, unless his personal form of Nytol was present. That particular sedative was wrapped in the sugary coating of John Watson, which made it far easier to swallow.

Choking on a sudden dryness that hit his throat at the use of 'sugary', 'John', and 'easy to swallow' in the same mental sentence, Sherlock opened his eyes slowly. The image that came into focus was not one he had been expecting; although the ceiling of their flat's living area did make a nice change.

The question now being; why was he on his back in his shirt and trousers, counting the chemical burns in the plaster – forty six small patches and two large stains – while nursing a terrible headache and a painful shoulder?

"John?" he called out, not really expecting a response. Maybe it was late and Dr Watson had gone to work. A quick glance at the clock coupled with his own intuition confirmed that this was not the case. It was seven am, barely light, and John left for work no earlier than nine am.

Furthermore, hadn't they been sitting on the couch watching prime-time talk shows? Yes, Sherlock was quite sure of that. Then he'd picked John up and - blank. There was a blank there. _Why _was there a blank there? First there was the unmistakeable turning of cogs and flow of electricity, then there was panic. It was not often that the detective couldn't trust his memory. Without a second thought he was up and taking the stairs two at a time.

"Mrs Hudson!"

* * *

><p>Something was dripping on his back, something cold and wet. John groaned and shook the grogginess out of his head. It felt like he had the worst hangover of his life. Trying to recall the events leading up to this point was difficult – it hurt and the memories were foggy.<p>

There was a lot of shouting, a car, someone speaking Russian – had it been Sherlock? A fear set in as the doctor realised he'd been taken; opening his eyes in increments it was soon easy to confirm that he was no longer at Baker Street.

His legs were bound to a chair by some kind of strong – and extremely sharp, he discovered – metal wire, as was his chest, and his arms to his sides. Straining to glance at his watch required him to call on all of his soldier's discipline not to cry out in pain as the wires tightened around him; instead a low hiss escaped his lips. Seven thirty am, the morning of the same day it had been when he was at home. So he hadn't been gone long. A sense of relief came with realising he must still be in London, along with dry amusement when the thought occurred to him that he was making some feeble attempt to deduce his whereabouts as Sherlock might have done.

He was quite used to being taken and held against his will. It was a regular occurrence when you spent your time in the company of a man that had more enemies than the entirety of the British government combined. This time felt different though, they'd been sure there was no cause for concern, that they could enjoy at least a small stretch of peace before some other deranged lunatic, or brilliant mind with nothing to do showed up. There were footsteps, a faint pattering in the distance. Whoever it was had a very small stride, but their steps were sure and resonated purpose. John swallowed hard, this should be interesting.

* * *

><p>It was almost comical, how they sat drinking tea as though nothing in the world had changed since before Moriarty ever appeared in their lives. Sherlock and Mrs Hudson, perhaps one would call them old friends, perhaps not. This particular scene, however, was not a pleasant one, and the landlady was almost certain some of her tea-set would be broken today. As if on cue Sherlock stood quickly, knocking his cup flying.<p>

The tea stained the carpet red as it slowly seeped into the fibres and clung to them, like a spreading pool of blood from some anonymous victim.

John wasn't anonymous though. John was important. He was integral to the detective's way of life and he would stay that way now whether time or distance played its part. Mrs Hudson set about cleaning up the mess that he had made in his frustration, and it was silent once again.

Until, that is, his phone began to ring.

Curious. A phone-call; much more personal than a text message – or much more amateur depending on the nature of the caller.

Taking time to exchange a look with a very concerned landlady of his, Sherlock took the phone from his coat pocket and answered, pressing the cool plastic to his ear.

"Hello Mr Holmes." Greeted the clipped, polished female voice on the end of the line.

"Morning." He replied, casually.

"I trust you've had a chance to notice your pet's absence now? Then let's not waste time." There was a pause; the air was so heavy that it felt as though Sherlock couldn't possibly breathe it. "Irene Adler. Where is she and how can I find her? Central London, the warehouse where the trade meets at four pm. If you are late, I'm afraid lost belongings can only be held onto for so long."

"Ms Adler. As far as I am aware, she died abroad." There was no hint of untruth to the detective's voice.

"Perhaps I can give you some motivation."

He could make out the sound of footsteps, and then a new voice came on the line.

"Sherlock? Listen, I'm fine, a bit uncomfortable but fine. They're not very bright I give it about two hours at –

It was undoubtedly John's voice, and suddenly he wasn't so sure he would win this round.

* * *

><p>At some point or other, the footsteps reached John, and stopped abruptly behind him.<p>

"Hello little man." Came a gruff voice with a heavy Russian accent. "Nikolay will make you very comfy." This comment was followed by a kick of the chair, earning a grunt from the doctor. "Boss' orders, lights out for now."

"Wait, light-

A sharp blow to John's temple quelled any questions he might have had about his visitor's intentions. He always found dreams visited him in times of unconsciousness. Sometimes they were happy, sometimes they were sad – this time it was more of a memory than a dream.

It took him back to St Barts first, showed him Sherlock's fall, and then straight to the funeral, to his burial. This lingered for much longer.

He hadn't wanted them to cremate the body, some part of him couldn't bear the thought that Sherlock would disappear completely, that there would be nothing left, and the other part was still expecting him to jump up and say it was all pretend, all a game. He never did. There was Mrs Hudson's eulogy, and words from several others. It was such a small gathering that alone was enough to make him cry.

It was so painful seeing so little people there. And yet in that he found his strength in front of the news camera, the one he had wanted to let in, so that he could tell the world what he thought of the man that was Sherlock Holmes, how he viewed him, and how much he should have been treasured by those close to him.

The homeless had gathered as inconspicuously as they could, and he didn't notice them until after the coffin had been completely covered and he had been stood in the rain for an hour maybe more. They were mourning with him, and for an instant John Watson didn't feel so alone.

Next came his final visit to the graveyard before Sherlock's return. _Sherlock's return, he came back for me._

It had been a miserably beautiful day. The sun was shining brightest it had all year and it seemed as though everything willed him to be happy even when he knew he couldn't.

"_I've been visiting the psychiatrist more frequently." He confessed to the grave he sat next to, embarrassed and laughing as though his friend would hear him and respond. "She doesn't know much, some things I just can't say. She says I'll get through it, that I'll get over it one day." He stopped for a while, watching the summer breeze through the oak trees scattered sparsely around the graveyard._

_The bottle in his hand felt heavy, but the doctor took a long drink from it._

"_Cheap cider, not that tasty..." he mumbled, pouring a little into the ground underneath which his friend lay – and feeling childish for doing so. "It's a bit shit isn't it?"_

_After another long pause of quiet contemplation he choked on his own breath, and wheezed; "I just don't think I'll ever get over you."_

John's eyes snapped open, someone was shaking him out of his stupor. Had he been crying? He certainly hoped not, that would be fun to explain to his captives; pathetic Doctor Watson.

The face of who he assumed must have been Nikolay stared back at him, grinning wide, his smile glinting with specks of gold from his many fillings.

"Mind chewing a breath mint next time you want to get so close?" he asked, frowning, lips pursed. Nikolay growled but backed away from him, only to hold out a mobile phone.

"Your buddy's on the line. Tell him something nice."

Buddy? He could only be referring to Sherlock, the phone was placed to his ear and John said nothing for a moment. It wouldn't take long for him to be found, really this operation seemed mediocre at best. Deciding that reassuring his partner was a better idea than asking for help he went with that idea.

"Sherlock? Listen, I'm fine, a bit uncomfortable but fine. They're not very bright I give it about two hours at –

The handset was taken away from him with a snarl, and Nikolay waddled his way over to a dark corner of the room. Another figure was there, they took the device from him, judging from their silhouette they seemed female – young.

This suspicion was confirmed when she called out to him, her voice echoing around the large empty warehouse.

"Don't worry Doctor Watson. You're simply a trade item. Once we have Irene then you can go free."

It took somewhere between thirty seconds and a minute for him to realise what she had just said.

"Irene? Irene Adler? She's dead; you can't trade me for a dead woman."

He would swear later that he could _hear _her smirk.

"Dead? I see your friend has been keeping secrets from you, Irene is very much alive."

The room began to spin and John found himself throwing up to the side of the chair, there were too many people coming back from the dead, too many people, people who Sherlock had been interested in, people who had been interested in Sherlock. The pain in his head was matching the pain in his chest and was not helping the nausea.

_Sherlock..._

"Oh dear." The woman began to speak again. "Was that too much of a shock to the system? Or do you suppose you have a concussion Dr Watson? That would be your profession of course."

There was no response, as unconsciousness claimed him once again.

* * *

><p>Mrs Hudson said nothing for a very long time, instead she stared, concernedly, at the back of Sherlock Holmes, who had been facing the wall with the phone still pressed to his ear.<p>

"You should just go find him, dear." She said eventually. There was a long period of time before the response.

"Just go _find him...?" _Sherlock asked her, visibly shaken.

"Yes. Isn't that what you always do? Honestly, I don't know why it should be any different for John."

She would always have something to say, always kind but stern advice, and he was one of the only people to know her in this way, to know what she was really like. None of that buttered up sweetness she put on for everyone else. "Just stop staring at that wall and go out and get him, you won't find him staying here will you?"

He turned around to face her, a large smile on his features. Planting a kiss on her cheek very suddenly he was up and out of the door, onto the street in the rain. There was time yet, he could find Irene, and they could save John.

They _would _save John.


	11. Negotiations (and the lack of)

Okay, so it's been a looooooong time since my last update. And by long I mean like a year. Or more. Yeouch.  
>I've had a lot of work with school since I'm in my final year of college and we're all preparing for university. That's taken up a lot of my time, it took up so much that when I finally got back to this fiction I had a complete writers block.<br>If I can't keep writing and make it flow I get really stuck really easy, so it's taken a bit to get this chapter out.  
>On top of that I keep getting ill, not sure why but I've had intermittent illnesses for a little while now, so that's also been getting in the way. Anyway, I hope this satisfies!<p>

(Originally this was a 5,500 word chapter (holy crap) so I split it into two.)

* * *

><p>The Return of Sherlock Holmes 11; Negotiations<p>

* * *

><p>Sherlock was running out of time that was certain. He nodded slightly to the young boy in front of him to show his appreciation. Jamie was small, no older than thirteen years. He was blonde, much like John, with wide green eyes and a layer of street-grime so ingrained that the detective doubted any amount of scrubbing would truly remove it.<br>"Make sure it gets to its destination." He instructed, holding out a mobile phone. Jamie smiled and ran off without a word.

Now it was time for the real fight to begin. The brunette turned his collar up against the wind and made his way towards the destination of their 'trade off' with a sense of divine purpose. No-one would dare stop a man walking as he did.

* * *

><p>The next time John's brain mustered enough strength to pull his consciousness back from the shores of limbo he was greeted with an empty room. No longer was he bound to a seat – in its place was an armchair - it was significantly more comfortable.<br>Nikolay was stood across the room; he paced back and forth waiting for John to come to. As he noticed movement he spun around to face him grinning wide. His golden fillings glinted in the light.  
>"Ah good, you are up, I will tell mistress."<p>

And just like that, he was left alone with his thoughts again. A quick look at his watch told him that it was 3pm. He hoped to God he hadn't been moved far away while he'd been passed out. He could move around the room but there was little point. Instead he sat down in his seat again and rested his head in his hands. He could feel the headache beginning already.  
><em>Sherlock, I'm sorry.<em>

* * *

><p>The warehouse was as Sherlock remembered it to be from his time dealing in the black market. The only difference here was he was acutely aware of the dangers to everyone involved. It was like having John here made him hypersensitive to any amount of hazard or risk, and he didn't like it. So he walked inside with a confident air, for the first time in his life praying to a God he didn't believe in that his brain had worked everything out as well as he wanted it to.<p>

He was greeted by an Indian man, tall in stature and very lanky. He smiled, bowing his head slightly.  
>"Good afternoon Mr Holmes! We have been expecting you. Shall I take your coat?"<br>His grin was not unlike that of the Cheshire cat, self-serving and cocky. Sherlock offered no reply, simply drawing his trench around himself in response.

"I see, well then, I'm sure you'd like to see Dr Watson, yes?" asked the man again, gesturing for the youngest Holmes to follow him. The walls of the warehouse were all painted a very stark white, and here and there stains were beginning to form where the water from outside leaked in and allowed mould to grow. Like an unclean version of every hospital Sherlock had ever been in.

He hoped his eagerness to follow this man didn't betray him, of course he wanted to see John, but he knew that once he was in that room they were both trapped until whoever ran this operation had Irene in their grasp.  
>Sherlock did not have Irene to offer them at this present moment.<p>

The man spoke, snapping the detective out of his thoughts back to the reality that surrounded him.  
>"Down this corridor, final room." He told him, still wearing that know-it-all expression. Sherlock nodded, and made his way past, turning at the final moment to pinch a nerve in his pied piper's neck.<br>The ensuing pain caused him to cry out, and the detective used the small window of opportunity where he was incapable of lashing out to knock him clean out.  
>Making his way down the corridor as fast as his legs would carry him, all he could think about was John.<p>

Was he okay, would he be injured, would he not trust him to keep him safe anymore? If that happened maybe he wouldn't want to be associated with him any more – and the detective certainly wouldn't blame him for that.  
>Closer, closer came the door until the handle was practically wrenched from its housing and the metal obstruction was flung wide open as he propelled himself through it.<p>

* * *

><p>The sounds of Aadesh's screams echoed around the corridor outside of John's room. He wondered if perhaps Nikolay had suddenly decided he wanted the lion's share of whatever they were getting out of this.<br>Footsteps quickly advanced on his little room, and he tensed up, making his way over to the door and listening for his presumed assailant's approach.  
>The door swung open, and he readied himself for a fight – but the sight that greeted him was not one that he expected.<br>Sherlock's eyes grew wide and he found himself barrelling forwards at such a pace that he could not stop, and instead collided with John with so much force that they both ended up spread-eagled on the floor.  
>"John!" he exclaimed, taking the other man's face in his hands and turning it every which way. "You're not hurt?"<p>

The aforementioned doctor Watson smiled a little, he would have shaken his head but Sherlock had it in a vice-like grip.  
>"No," he mumbled though his cheeks were a little squished up by his partner's hands. "I'm a bit dizzy, but otherwise fine. Nothing a good night's sleep won't fix." He noticed the concern that the other's uncharacteristically animated face showed and added; "Trust me, I'm a doctor."<p>

As though someone had flipped a switch, Sherlock nodded, standing up and offering a hand to help his friend back to his feet. The sound of many footsteps filled their ears with urgency.  
>"Who was in here with you?" the detective probed, hurriedly.<p>

"A man named Nikolay."

"Any defining features?"

"A mouth full of gold with a foul smell to match."

Thinking for a moment, John watched in awe as Sherlock's mind processed a thousand scenarios and questions all at once.

"When he comes in here, do your best to knock a few of his fillings loose." He eyed his friend apologetically. "You might not get out unscathed, but trust me it will help."

With that he was gone, taking his leave before the advancing 'cavalry' could catch up with him.

* * *

><p>Around ten minutes after Sherlock's departure, John was visited again by Nikolay who smiled at him as though he knew it grated on his nerves.<p>

"Your friend is tricky little rat. But we will catch."

"Your friend is _a _tricky little rat. But we will catch _him_." Doctor Watson corrected, praying for all his worth that the Russian had a complex about his sentence structure inadequacy.

"You leave my words out of this, they are good to understand!" he spat, accent heavier with his building rage.

Bingo.

"They are good _enough _to understand. Please try harder." John grinned, but Nikolay had swiftly crossed the room and landed a punch on his jaw. He was sure he felt something crack.

Groaning and squinting through the searing pain, he threw a punch back at the now laughing Nikolay, who screeched and held his mouth. Something _definitely _cracked that time.

"You, you broke other tooth!" he hissed, groaning again at the pain of talking. Taking his time to think about it, the Russian seemed to decide that getting his mouth seen to was more important than going another round with John. "I will be back for you."

* * *

><p>The warehouse was a complex maze of thin corridors and plasterboard rooms – sort of a prefab hideout with an 80s budget to match.<br>Sherlock didn't take long to find the room he was looking for though – they had passed it on the way to John's sort of 'confinement'. It was a medical room, and he swiftly changed into a lab coat, banking on the fact that this Nikolay was unfamiliar with his appearance.  
>Right on cue, the Russian waltzed into the room, holding his jaw in a giant ham-fisted palm.<br>"Little idiot broke tooth, you can fix doctor?" he asked, Sherlock smiled at him.

"Of course, take a seat."

* * *

><p>Nikolay returned around an hour later, the pain in the doctor's jaw had turned into a dull ache, and he thought he'd probably gotten away without breaking it.<br>The Russian however, seemed to be in considerable pain.

He went about his usual business, checking John for any bugs or communication devices, giving him a glass of water and a good smack on the head for fun, before leaving.  
>This time, he forgot to lock the door.<p>

John wasn't sure why his keeper would miss out something so important – but he wasn't one to complain. Taking his chance, he made his way out quickly – allowing a little leeway so that he wouldn't run into the disgruntled dentist's nightmare – and turned in what he assumed would be the direction of the exit.

Quickly and quietly were the key words in this situation, he felt each footstep and could hear the pounding of his blood in his ears. It had been so long, and as much as he hated to admit it moments like this made him feel truly alive.

His journey took him westward, into an area of the warehouse unlike the rest. It was less 'prettied up', with more raw metals and wires everywhere. There were hardly any guards here and no sound save for muffled arguing coming from the room at the end of this final hallway.

So he hadn't gone in the direction he wanted to, but this seemed like it could get interesting.

Creeping up – or as much as someone of his stocky stature could muster – he shimmied himself along the wall, taking deep shaky breaths he tried to steady himself to avoid detection. He recognised one of the voices; it was the young woman who had him brought here. The other voice was a little too distorted by the walls for him to recognise though he could make out what they were saying.

"You idiot, I gave you one job and you messed up!" screeched the woman's voice, like a harpy who lost her meal.

"But Emma, I cannot do any better than this. Holmes caught me off guard I –

John thought the voice might have belonged to the Indian man.

"Off guard!?" the distaste in Emily's voice was evident as her pitch registered even higher than the doctor thought was possible. "You're supposed to be on guard at all times! Are you a _complete _imbecile!?"

There was a crash, and their debate was interrupted.

"Sorry to intrude but it seemed like this may take some time and I don't have any to waste."

Now that _was _someone John recognised, and the sound made his blood run cold.

* * *

><p>After dealing with Nikolay sufficiently to incapacitate him (or at least somewhat) Sherlock busied himself with finding the now free John so that they could plan their route out of here.<p>

The corridors were long and vast and even though this was just a warehouse in an old trade centre, it really did make for some tricky navigation and mind mapping. He was so lost in his recollections that he didn't feel a hand rest on his shoulder – when he eventually realised someone was there, he turned around quickly and took up a defensive stance.

The person stood in front of him was not what he had expected. There, in all her glory was Irene Addler.

"You." He breathed, not entirely sure how he had been so lucky as to have _this _version of his plan come to pass.

"Well now, that's not very nice." She smiled coyly, red velvet curving upwards and showing off the harsh look of dark hair on white, satin skin. "After all, _you _called for me."

He nodded, taking in the woman before him, _the woman. _She was tall enough, beautifully so, and everything about her screamed dangerous. Just the kind of person Sherlock would love to figure out and lay bare for the whole world to see; but somehow she managed to hide herself from him for a long time.

Once he had figured her out, however, she became somewhat of a bore to him. At least he knew he could count on her in a pinch to not let herself get caught – which by extension meant they would probably all make it out of here today.

There was no time for a reunion, the sound of running filled their ears and it seemed to be coming from all directions – another advantage to this layout it seemed was the scrambling of the acoustics. Sherlock whipped around to try and pinpoint the location of the sound based on the angles of the walls – but when he turned back Irene was nowhere to be seen. She was gone again, leaving him alone to his fate.

He didn't resist when his face was pushed into the concrete, or when the ropes were tied around his hands. He knew she would come back for him.

It wasn't faith, or hope, or something as similarly unlikely; he _knew _she would come back.


	12. Emily

Well, here's the other 'half' of that chapter.  
>There is a sex scene at the end of this one so please if you're sensitive or dislike that kind of thing do not read. You can message me if you want a synopsis of the story in this chapter or a version which does not contain the sex scene.<p>

I'd like to think it's relatively tastefully done but hey, that's for you guys to decide.

Thanks as always for reading/reviewing and there are now only a couple of chapters left to go!

Enjoy~

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><p>The Return of Sherlock Holmes 12; Emily<p>

* * *

><p>Emily was seething, how could Aadesh make such a simple mistake? And now they had to deal with Holmes themselves.<p>

The aforementioned detective sat in front of them, bound to a metal fold-out chair. He was out cold, but that was the least of their concerns. She knew now that just by having him here with them there was probably some evidence that could tie her to his death if they were to get rid of him now. It would have to wait – and she knew as well as anyone that if Irene appeared at any point now he would be useless as a bargaining chip because Emily couldn't very well threaten him anymore.

"You idiot, I gave you one job and you messed up!" she screamed at Aadesh, the sound enough to make children cry in terror and run to their mothers.

"But Emma, I cannot do any better than this. Holmes caught me off guard I –

His excuses did nothing to appease her, hazel eyes boring a hole into his skull.

"Off guard!?" she was even more furious than before, and felt her voice crack under the strain of the volume she projected it with. "You're supposed to be on guard at all times! Are you a _complete _imbecile!?"

As if by some designed timing the air vent above them came crashing to the ground, and a figure dropped from the hole where the metal once was fixed.

"Sorry to intrude but it seemed like this may take some time and I don't have any to waste."

Emily stared wide-eyed, it was Irene, at a time like this when her plans might come to nothing – no. They would not come to nothing; she would have her way. At least that was what she was thinking up until the nine millimetre was pressed against her cheek.

"A-Aadesh, tell Miss Addler we mean her no harm, put your weapon down."

The man had already drawn his own, small handgun and was aiming it shakily at Irene. She smiled, aiming a quick shot at him and turning her attention back to Emily.

Running a hand through the brunette's short fringe she made a noise of disapproval.

"I liked it better long."

"Not enough to stay with me."

The raven haired woman smirked, gesturing towards Sherlock.

"And why him, might I ask?"

Chuckling a little, Emily shrugged.

"I knew he could find you – and I thought you'd love to watch him die."

"You know I'm dead, don't you?" Irene asked, voice dripping with venom. "Dead people can't kill other people."

To make her point she began to put pressure on the trigger of her gun.

"You couldn't kill me; we have too much in common, too much history."

"I never liked that boring old subject – and cutting off that hair is a crime punishable by death."

Just like that she fired, watching the girl slump over in pain – it was a clean shot through the leg and would leave her unable to move for some time now.

Pressing a button on the desk in front of her, Irene's voice filtered through over the speakers that littered the warehouse.

"Emily dear is unable to continue this business venture with you all – we suggest you leave, isn't that right, honey?" her sickly sweet tones were like a slap in the face, but all the gang leader could do was groan and sob quietly.

The mass exodus was a little swifter than expected – but really they were all in it for their pay-checks so why would they care if something happened to her? They didn't want to get caught by the authorities just to stick up for their boss.

Walking over to Sherlock, his old acquaintance gave him a smack across the face with the butt of her pistol. It would hurt, but it would wake him up. She smiled at his groggy expression, leaving him a red lipstick mark on his cheek as a souvenir.

"See you around, Mr Detective." She winked, and just like that she was gone. Back into the upper reaches of the warehouse and nowhere to be seen.

Sherlock surveyed the scene and pieced together what had happened as soon as his addled brain would allow.

"Why her?" he asked, short and to the point. Emily just continued to groan in the corner of the room. "_Why her?" _he asked again loudly.

"For the money, what else?" snapped the girl back at him. "Some people in high places know she isn't gone, and they want her dead."

The room went silent, and the door creaked open.

"Uhm, sorry, don't mind me I'm just here to pick him up." John spoke sheepishly – it seemed a little surreal to be in this situation with a body on the floor and a person who had been shot, just so that he could pick up his partner. "You know, he's like a bit of a child really – got to look after him."

"John!" The relief in Sherlock's voice was evident, and he hadn't made any attempt to mask it.

"Yeah, I think it's about time we went home."

He smiled at the brunette, sending a pitied glance at Emily. _I don't think he even realises._

* * *

><p>By the time they were home, John had so many unanswered questions – and Sherlock some of his own – but it seemed that conversation was not coming naturally to them. Finally the doctor piped up.<p>

"Why did the Russian guy get so distracted by his mouth?"

Sherlock smirked a little to himself as he sat on the sofa, watching more talk shows.

"I gave him a silver filling," by now John should not be surprised at anything Sherlock said but he never knew the other man could perform dental surgery. Then again, that depended on your definition of 'perform'. "It causes what is referred to as galvanic shock. The saliva can cause an electric shock in the mouth if gold and silver fillings are too close to one another. He would have been in a lot of pain, and I counted on him to become distracted by it."

There was a pause again, John chewing the inside of his cheek as he thought. Once the tang of metal filled his mouth he realised he had been doing this for some time and instead opted to speak again.

"You know why Emily did it, right?"

It was an open question, and Sherlock didn't even look at him when he answered.

"Of course, she told me herself; it was for the money."

Sometimes his friend was so naive John barely believed it.

"Yeah that was part of it."

Now he had the other's attention.

"She wanted the money, but she was so driven because of revenge. I think they had something between them that maybe Irene broke off."

Sherlock stared at him like he'd grown a second head.

"You might not be able to see these things in people but I can. When you can read people's emotions, you just know this stuff –it's like a gut feeling. Out of interest, how did you find her?"

Turning around to face his partner, the detective curled himself up into a little ball so that his chin touched his knees.

"I had her cell phone."

There was a sharp intake of breath and a pain in John's chest unlike any he'd felt before, why was that?

"Jamie took it – the homeless boy. I knew someone in the network would know where she was, they gave the phone to her. Yes it no longer had the sim-card in but I could still record a little message for her on it, telling her about the situation."

The silence was crushing, neither spoke for a long time –John's thoughts swam around in circles. Sherlock kept Irene's phone. He missed her, he knew he'd mourned her in some sense when they thought she was gone, he must have been attached to her. But she wasn't dead, she was still alive; so did that mean that he was still attached to her? If he was why was he with John? What purpose would that serve when someone younger, much more attractive and much more interesting was around for him to spend his time with?

"You kept it, all this time?"

Sherlock didn't know what to say in response – he had kept the phone. But it wasn't for the reasons he feared John was thinking. No not at all, in fact it had absolutely nothing to do with that – it was for just such a situation as this. For if there was a time he would need her again, and it had served its purpose. She owed him a favour and now she no longer did.

"John, I kept it in case I needed her like I did today. There was no other reason."

He got up off the sofa and crossed the room, reaching out a hand to his partner who batted it away with anger in his eyes.

"She was alive – she _is _alive. Why don't you just go be with her?"

"I don't want to be with her, I want to be here with you."

"No, no you don't. She's beautiful, strong, and intelligent, she's everything you ever wanted in a person and I know she wanted you too. You could tell by the way you used to look at each other. Please don't pretend otherwise because I –

In the middle of his ramblings, Sherlock had taken his face in his hands and kissed him on the cheek.

"You said you can tell what people feel by how they look at each other, or the expressions they wear on their faces."

The surprise of the sudden display of affection had John stunned so he simply nodded as Sherlock remembered the lipstick on his cheek and rubbed it off with vigour.

"Then tell me what _my _expression is showing you."

He looked, and what he saw was enough to melt any words he had in his mouth down to nothing, because Sherlock – his Sherlock – was looking at him with enough affection and longing to fell a Rhinoceros in a head-on collision. So John kissed him, he kissed him with all of the intent he could muster, and the brunette kissed back, pulling him closer to him.

They parted for just a moment, and John smiled a little.

"I almost lost you." Sherlock mused, surprising the doctor for the millionth time that day. "Never do that again."

"Hey it wasn't my-

But the brunette's lips were on him again, claiming him, making him his. In a rush of heat and overflowing emotions they were backing up towards the sofa, hastily fumbling with the buttons of each other's shirts.

How John loved that purple shirt – it barely fit and left little to the imagination. He'd wanted for so long just to see what was underneath and the sight that greeted him was by far better than any of his fantasies. The pale skin, scars from many dangerous encounters here and there which just added to the mystery of the man, and matched his own from his fights during his soldier duty.

The coat and shirt were swiftly discarded, as was John's own parka and jumper, Sherlock fumbled with his scarf.

"W-wait." John mumbled, embarrassed, "I, uh, leave it please."

Raising an eyebrow, the brunette did as he obliged.

"Very well, but only if you allow this." He took one end of the half-removed item and wrapped it around John's neck, so that they both wore it. The doctor nodded his agreement, unable to form words in his excitement and awkwardness. It was a strange feeling, like losing his virginity all over again but then it hit him. He was sort of losing a kind of virginity, and Sherlock _would _be losing his as far as he knew. Oh God he hoped he didn't put him off again.

The detective noticed his hesitation, and placed a soft kiss on his collarbone.  
>"Please John." He murmured, and that was enough. To be wanted was more than John could ever ask for.<p>

His scars were deeper than the other's, who regarded him with wide-eyed wonder. It had come down to this moment now both stripped down to their underwear, hot and heavy with anticipation with the evidence of their excitements pressing against each other, creating slight friction with each deep breath they took.

Knowing they both wanted this was helpful, unlike being with a woman there was a very prominent physical representation of their intentions between them and John felt more confident because of it. Looking his partner in the eyes he reached down to his underwear. A subconscious agreement was spoken between them, and at the same time they took the last items they were wearing clean off.

Now they were completely naked, and exposed to each other save for the scarf – yet there was no embarrassment, no difficult 'who's going to look first' moment. They both took almost no notice of their changing situation, instead opting to pause in thought at who would take on which role. Shifting his weight, Sherlock parted his legs slightly, as an indication of his decision to bottom.

If he was honest, John was very relieved this was the way around it was happening.

Realising they were sprawled on the sofa, John was glad of his secret daytime habits now. It meant he'd hidden some _materials _underneath the seat itself. Sherlock gave him an incredulous look meaning something along the lines of 'when I can think properly again we're going to have a discussion about this' which quickly changed to one of shock when he felt the other's finger press against his entrance.

John had taken advantage of his distraction to begin the arduous process of making sure his partner was comfortable. The way he squirmed in response was delightful and a complete turn on – like nothing he'd ever seen before.

Since neither of them knew much at all about how this was supposed to work, he thought it was best to get on with it – though the sensation of the muscles tightening in response to his fingers' intrusion was making him anticipate the same feeling on a much more interesting body part.

It was an agonising wait, long enough to infuriate John to no end, short enough that it was probably only minutes.

"John, as much as I appreciate this, please." The pained look on Sherlock's face, it seemed, had no longer been from his adjusting to the situation, but from an insatiable need to finish himself off. John didn't need to be told twice.

They shifted around a little, until John was pressing against him, the brunette bit into his shoulder a little, a silent plea for him to continue. So he did, it was difficult at first but after the initial push was much smoother. Almost immediately the doctor could not think of another thing in the world that compared to this – some of it was the sensation, and some of it was knowing that the object of his only affections in this world trusted him enough to let him do this.

Sherlock grit his teeth, resolving in the end to simply bite down harder into John's shoulder. It hurt, but at the same time the full feeling was one he was growing quickly accustomed to and even enjoying a little.

"Sorry." Mumbled the ex-soldier, and Sherlock didn't get a chance to ask him what for, as he began a slow pace. Immediately sparks burst into miniature fireworks in the detective's mind and he couldn't hold back a low groan that escaped his lips.

It was embarrassing, it was humiliating but it was raw it was real and it was a side of himself he could only show to John and no-one else. The joy was overwhelming, and the heat built with every second between them. The pace quickened and he soon found all pain forgotten, replaced by white hot ecstasy, racing through him like electricity and setting fire to every nerve ending he could feel and even some he'd never felt before.

They were both close, their movements erratic and their sounds becoming more and more desperate. He needed something, anything to hold on to and instead found himself scrabbling at John's back while the other man tried his best to continue supporting them in their awkward position on the sofa.

With a final, loud cry the brunette was done, expelling himself all over his scarf, the rest landing on the pair in various places. John followed soon after, as the thought of his partner's release only heightened his own pleasure.  
>For a moment they stayed that way, catching their breath and trying to understand the things they had just felt between them – the unfathomable connection that neither had experienced anything close to before in their lives, but they could not.<p>

John kissed Sherlock on the forehead and rolled off him, the two of them haphazardly leaning on the sofa in the most comfortable way they could manage.

Sherlock began laughing a little, and John soon followed suit.

"What's got you laughing?" he asked, the brunette turned to look at him, a wide grin on his face – it made his heart skip a beat.

"You know, the best way to gather data for a theory is to perform your own experiments. So I think we might have to do this more often."

Chuckling in response, this was the last thing John had expected to hear from Sherlock.

"I love you, you complete git."

"I love you too, John."


	13. Loud and Clear

Okay so here's the final 'chapter' of this story. There will be an epilogue but this is indeed the last real instalment into the story. I'm so glad I could share this with all of you and I hope you enjoyed it and forgive me for being so busy and not updating in so long.

* * *

><p>The Return of Sherlock Holmes 13; Loud and Clear<p>

* * *

><p>John's mouth hung open in disbelief. Had Sherlock really just said that? His Sherlock? The clouds that lined his thoughts for so long like the stormy sky over fair London dissipated in that instant.<br>He'd gotten used to the notion that he would be the only one to ever say it. The only one of them to be able to come out and admit his feelings for what they were.  
>John loved Sherlock, and Sherlock loved John, but Doctor Watson was as sure as the wind blows that he would be alone in his declarations.<br>He watched the other's chest rise and fall as he inhaled and exhaled deeply, his lips were moist and his hair a tousled mess – well more so than usual. A languid arm snaked its way around him, pulling him close as the detective inhaled his scent deeply. He wanted to know all of John, and by now his essence was so familiar to him; but not like this. Not after being so intimate, not after _sex._

He had sex with John. Something he thought he'd never do in his lifetime, and in anything that came after if such a place existed. Cataloguing the experience somewhere in the vast halls of his mind palace he made sure to remember every excruciating detail lest he ever mistake the experience for something less than it was – which was to say absolutely mind-blowing in every way.

Pulling his face away from Sherlock's chest, John looked at him with a childlike expression of sincere disbelief.

"What?"

The other man looked at him out of one eye, smiling a little in spite of himself.

"What?" he mimicked, lips twitching into a half-smirk.

"What did you just say to me?"

Realising the nature of John's distress, Sherlock looked down at the both of them, and the messy sofa. The feeling of something warm and wet trailing down his inner thigh was distracting him – though it was quickly beginning to congeal. He shifted himself into a sitting position, finding that John was now suddenly embarrassed about his lack of clothes as soon as he could be seen in his entirety.

"Sit sideways." Sherlock commanded, John opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it and complied with the 'request'. Standing up, the brunette slid his arms under the smaller man and picked him up.

"W-What are you doing?!" he asked, exasperated. He didn't like being treated like a little kid.

"I'm taking you to bed."

Silence.

"Not quite John, but I admire your enthusiasm. I'm sure a _rest _is in order," he paused. "And you asked me what I said to you."

John nodded, lip trembling in anticipation.

"So, every four steps I take I'm going to tell you again."

He began walking, and sure enough after four steps.

"I love you, John Watson."

He really did keep to his word; so much that John was beyond embarrassed, and when they finally fell over together onto the bed, neither bothered to fetch the covers over them.  
>He wiped his face, tears beginning to form. Sherlock looked at him with a concerned expression.<p>

"Did I land on you painfully?"

Laughing a little, he couldn't stop himself from full on sobbing.

"I love you so much Sherlock." He began through the snot and tears. "I-I thought you were gone forever – oh God what if you had been? What if I never got to, to do this? What if I spent my whole life regretting not telling you when you'd have-

He was silenced by his partner's lips on his own.

"But I'm not gone, I'm here, and you're with me."

It was maybe the tenderest John had ever seen him and they eventually fell asleep in this way, Sherlock holding him as he wept, stroking his back – John even thought he felt a few drops against his back where his detective was crying with him. Of course he could never prove it; Sherlock wouldn't let him see that just yet.

* * *

><p>The next morning, they awoke as was usual – that is to say Sherlock awoke long before John. What was unusual was that the detective hadn't gotten out of bed. He simply lounged next to his partner, one arm draped over him possessively; the other was being used to draw little circles on his bottom lip as he stared at the headboard in thought.<p>

It was awe inspiring to watch him when he was deep in thought – it was like he was lost on another world somewhere; which, in hindsight, was probably true mentally. He didn't notice if John stared at him, which was also a bonus because he could admire just how beautiful he really was. Sometimes it made him scared to touch him in case he might break and disappear.

"Sherlock?" he asked eventually, shifting a little under his arm. The detective whipped his head around and put on his usual air of indifference.

"Ah, good morning John."

Smiling, John sat himself up, running a hand through his dishevelled hair.

"We need to get up; Greg won't want us to be late."

Of course, John was referring to the press conference and the final review of all the evidence he'd gathered over the years away – away from his friend, his partner – no. Stop. Filling his thoughts with Doctor Watson would not help him in any way.

It was nice though.

Nodding eventually after he realised how long it took him to respond, Sherlock sat up, paused, and turned to give John a kiss on the forehead while one hand rested gingerly on the back of his neck.

"I will have to shower first."

John smiled nodding.

"Okay, what was that for?"

He was referencing the good morning kiss.

"Was it not appropriate?"

"It was great, but I didn't think you'd be all touchy-feely."

"I'm not; I just recognise that _you _are."

Sherlock smirked at John's flushed face and somewhat put-out expression.

"I wouldn't have kissed you if I didn't want to John; I'm, 'messing with you'."

He got up and made for the door, but not before a pillow hit him in the back and John emitted a grumbled;

"Arsehole."

* * *

><p>Smiling at the two of them, Lestrade handed Sherlock a piece of paper – it was a formality; a declaration to show that any and all charges against him had been officially dropped.<p>

John grinned back at him, squeezing his partner's shoulder in reassurance. They didn't hold hands hug and cuddle up in public – it just wasn't good for their dynamic. Little gestures were all they gave on another, and in many respects it made the time they did share together uninterrupted even more special.

The flash drive had contained a lot of information; bank records, conversations with Moriarty himself, and after some digging they found the evidence that showed that James Moriarty had indeed been a real person and not some actor Sherlock had paid to fob everyone off.

It was a good step for them, Sherlock and John; everything could go back to normal now. Well as normal as a dead man and a socially deficient army doctor living together could be.

For all of their flaws, they matched each other perfectly.

"All right, the press are waiting for you; you'd better get out there." Greg held out Sherlock's old deerstalker. "Wear this too, they love it."

Sherlock snorted, brushing past the now superintendent and ignored his offering. John took the hat and followed after him, placing it atop his head with a little hop.

"Congratulations, inspector." Called the brunette from up ahead. Greg simply sighed in response, no matter what he did with his life he would always be detective inspector Lestrade to Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock Holmes would always be a reckless man-child to DI Lestrade.

* * *

><p>No sooner had they walked out onto the podium than cameras were flashing, practically blinding John in the process.<p>

Questions came from left and right;

What was the outcome of your hearing?

Did you have any secret romances?

Does Doctor Watson have a wife yet?

Who _was _James Moriarty?

What is your opinion on Greg Lestrade's promotion?

The list went on and on. John sighed as they waited for the crowd to settle and took their positions in front of the microphone. A hush descended, and Sherlock picked people at random to talk to him by gesturing disinterestedly.

A young woman with blonde hair pulled back into a tight sheer ponytail was the first.

"What was the police's ultimate decision on your charges today, Mr Holmes?" she asked, and Sherlock simply held up the piece of paper he'd just been gifted with a bored expression.

"Revoked." He stated, waiting for another round of muttering to dissipate and the cameras to finish taking their photographs. The video broadcasts would have to make do with some intensely boring television. A woman in her late forties at least was the next to speak.

"What can you tell us about James Moriarty, who _was _he?"

"He was a criminal – a brilliant one, and fooled you all. That's as much as you need to know."

A young man jumped up from behind her – a fire in his eyes and a pen in his hands.

"Did you know about the 'believe in Sherlock' movement?"

Sherlock paused, looking at John out of the corner of his eye who smiled sheepishly.

"Yes, it was flattering but unnecessary."

He turned to John now.

"You started the movement Doctor Watson, what was your reasoning behind this?"

Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself. He didn't like speaking in public situations and all of this was a little much for him. All cameras focused on him now.

"Well, Sherlock has always been a good friend of mine ever since we met." He looked at the brunette for reassurance that he wasn't saying anything he shouldn't. "I knew he wasn't some crazy man who wanted to make everyone think he was brilliant – he just was."

Once he had started he found that he couldn't stop – what he'd wanted the world to see in Sherlock for three long years, what he always wanted them to see in him, and what he'd wanted them to _hear _about him was finally being broadcast on major news stations.

"I live with him as you all know; we work out of our apartment. I lived through his ridiculous habits and unbearable mannerisms. But I also saw the magic at work, when he deduces – that is when he works out _the answer _you can see the information coming to him, see him process it in an instant and then he comes out with something so simple and obvious and yet no-one else in the world would have seen it."

Taking a pause, he looked around the room at the stunned faces.

"I knew Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud, and if it was the last thing I did I wanted to make sure everyone else knew it too."

There was silence, and it reigned for far too long for John's taste. He worried he might have said too much; if he did Sherlock's expression gave nothing away.

"Excuse me, Doctor Watson?" the blonde girl called out to him again, giving him some respite from the crippling lack of conversation that was passing between all of the people in the room.

"Ah, yes?" he asked, extremely put out.

"I think we all want to know; what is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

Again, that horrifying lack of sound filled his ears and John found himself gaping like an idiot.

"Well we're partners."

The blonde girl rolled her eyes, and he could feel the collective holding of breath around the room.

"Yes, but are you partners in more than just work?"

She was prying deep and John was useless at lying, he looked at Sherlock in desperation who regarded him with that same unfeeling expression until eventually he took a determined step a little closer to John, placing a reassuring hand on his back.

"John is my good friend." He told the crowd, who – as to be expected – were not entirely happy with this response. "He has proven to be trustworthy, and loyal."

John could swear he heard someone mutter 'he just got rejected on national television', so they were sure that he was interested in Sherlock even if he seemed uninterested the other way around.

"If you're looking for a label to define our relationship," by now John had tuned Sherlock out and was just waiting for this moment to be over so they could leave. "Then I believe the common masses would say we were a 'couple'."

There was a sharp intake of breath and an audible gasp from one or two members of the press.

"That is to say, romantically involved."

Now it was John's turn to remain quiet while all hell broke loose, people were shouting, asking all manner of questions about their lives together, but all he could focus on was Sherlock. And the fact that he'd just told the world what they were to each other.

Taking John by the hand, Sherlock lead them out and they were soon running along the streets back towards Baker Street. It was reminiscent of the night they spent handcuffed to each other, traversing the back-alleys of London; except this time their palms were clasped together, sweaty with exhilaration and they both felt truly alive.

"Why did you tell them, I thought you were worried I'd be used against you?" John called out as they ran.

"John, you're far too strong for me to worry too much – I have to trust you. Besides which, I thought you'd find their reaction 'priceless'."

Now they were both grinning like idiots.

"It was pretty funny."

Followed by some subdued laughter.

And just like that they were home again, the two of them together as if nothing had ever changed; and if either one had their way, nothing ever would.


	14. Prologue

Prologue

* * *

><p>Things were normal at two-two-one-B Baker Street. Normal as far as its residents were concerned. They were back to working on cases, in fact one had presented itself only that morning.<p>

His hair was a dark shade of auburn, and freckles littered his face. Specks of crimson-brown blood filled in the spaces in-between them; this boy of no older than 15.

John finished his examination and stood up with a sigh.

"Well?" came the impatient voice he had come to know and love.

"He didn't get these bruises during the attack; it could have been a few days beforehand."

The usual celebration of Sherlock's brilliance came next. The detective punched the air, spinning around on his heels to clap Lestrade on the shoulders. Donovan and Anderson had called the superintendent down to hear his theories on the case.

"Oh beautiful!" he exclaimed, Greg regarded him with his usual dumbfounded lack of understanding.

"What is?" he asked incredulously, greying eyebrow rising in intrigue. Sherlock turned quickly, pointing at John.

"Well?"

The smaller man jumped a little, pointing at himself.

"Me?"

Rolling his eyes Sherlock sauntered over to him confidently and put an arm around his shoulders and leaning in so that their cheeks almost touched.

"Yes _you. _What do you think?" he gestured to the body in front of them.

"Well, the bruises are obviously from a separate incident..." John trailed off, licking his lips and chewing his cheek nervously. He didn't like this, being the centre of attention, put on the spot so to speak. He liked watching, no, _loved _watching Sherlock make deductions – but he didn't like his penchant for making _him _do them instead.

"Yes, obviously. So what does that tell us about the suspect?"

"It could be someone else?"

Clapping his hands together as he pulled away from John, Sherlock sent him a subtle wink.

"Precisely! The bruises; we assumed they were sustained during the attack that resulted in his death. They are consistent with assault – so his homosexual admirer was automatically suspected. There were no girls who were similarly obsessed with him, though it seemed unlikely that the other boy would let it develop into anything ending in rape. Maybe he was jealous of his new girlfriend and killed him in a 'crime of passion'? However, what if these bruises were sustained another time? Who is to say that he was not hit at some other point prior." Pausing for breath, Sherlock drank up the blank expressions of all those around him, all those except John whose bedroom eyes coupled with the mouthing of 'just you wait' would have been enough to throw him off mid flow.

"Now, consider the previous allegations against his father; he was convicted of molestation and assault correct? Well then, what if, for argument's sake it was not the father but the mother? The same mother he now lives at home with? She made her husband take the fall for her – maybe out of fear, or some other leverage she held over him. No matter; the bruising pattern suggests someone of typical female build, around the same size and weight as his mother dear. This time she took it too far, he could have wandered out here with severe internal bleeding and have died here without her knowledge. If he had lived longer I have no doubt we'd see another, more intense bruising."

Looking around, he noticed John biting his lip; they would need to get out of here soon if the stirring in the pit of Sherlock's stomach was anything to go by.

"There uh, there is evidence to suggest he suffered from internal bleeding; we need to wait for the coroner's report though." John confirmed his hypothesis distractedly, and with a smile Sherlock patted Greg on the back, taking his partner by the arm and waving half-heartedly as they walked away.

"You're welcome." He called without waiting for a thank you.

* * *

><p>They had been the attention of a lot of media coverage since their 'big reveal', but at home Sherlock and John were the same as ever.<br>First the kettle was brewed, John staring into the bowl of hard candies on their occasional table. He wanted anything to distract him from his day, from the world they lived in.

That distraction came in the form of Sherlock walking into the room wearing nothing but a towel; he'd just showered by the looks of things and stood in front of John like some kind of presentation, a representation of everything important in his life.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, John's breath hitched as the towel dropped to the floor.

Yes, things were normal at two-two-one-B Baker Street. Normal as far as its residents were concerned. They were back to working on cases, in fact one had presented itself only that morning.

But now Sherlock had another mystery to solve – how to get John undressed quick enough to satisfy them both.

Perhaps today would be interesting after all.

* * *

><p>Thanks so much to everyone who read and reviewed, and to those of you who continue to enjoy my fiction.<br>It's been such a journey writing it, and some of you have been here since the very beginning. I'm working on a few shorter JohnLock ficlets now if you're interested.

As always, have a wonderful day and don't hesitate to drop me a message. It's been a real pleasure!  
>Mayora~<p> 


	15. Acknowledgements

This chapter is dedicated to the wonderful people who made the journey of 2012-2013 me's writing worthwhile and a super enjoyable /I look back on this now with a mindset of an elder reflecting on a young person's achievements and even though in this two year span since then I have changed a lot as a person (I think there's much growing up to be done between the ages of 16/17-20) and my writing has improved, I can read this with all its flaws and appreciate the enjoyment I had from /Eventually I may go back through this and make an 'improved' version, however purely for nostalgia purposes I think I may leave this one untouched.  
>(Written for my AO3 account, MageRightsActivist, where I re-uploaded this fiction)<p>

* * *

><p>Wow, what a journey! Over a year in the making and looking back on it I can't believe I managed to complete it.<br>The story began as something I had an incredible passion for, and (as you can see from my original author's notes) something that life eventually got in the way of. By the time I had enough hours in the day to come back to it my passion and drive for it had all but disappeared. Then I looked to my story follows, and my reviews, and kind messages from others asking how I was doing and how my story was coming.  
>I realised that these people were involved not only with what I was writing but with what I had been doing in my real life separate from this creation. My 'fans' if I can call them that gave me such love and motivation to finish it, if not for me then for them and in the end that was the push I needed to bring this fiction to it's culmination.<br>I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did at the time of writing.  
>Reading it now it's as though someone else has written it, a person that I do not know but was once similar to - and I think we all feel like this sometimes as we change and grow. I forgot half of what had happened in my story and found myself re-reading it. Sure I could find mistakes here and there but overall it was an enjoyable nostalgic feeling, and left me with a sense of pride reading it as an 'outsider' and thinking; actually, I did write this!<br>Anyway, without further adieu, I would like to post some of my favorite things I have had sent to me regarding this fiction, and the names of those who followed it closely with me in order to have a page I can return to to indulge in a little when I am demotivated - and as a way of remembering friends who I have long since fallen out of touch with, albeit never forgotten.  
>'Electryone' reviewed many chapters after the third onward and served as a reminder that people did wait to see my updates. A particular favorite of mine was; "I love the idea of the letters; this was a great chapter! Good luck on your exams!" simple, sweet and caring enough to ask about my home life. Wherever you are now I hope life is treating you well!p  
>As the story grew in length so did the volume and frequency of my reviews.<br>'Rather Keen' sent me this "This chapter in particular was really beautiful. I love how you blend the characteristics of ACD and BBC John/Sherlock. I can't imagine it was easy to combine those voices, but very well done. You also do a lovely job of handling the emotional aspects of their reunion - it's smooth and well paced, none of those unnatural fits and starts. :-)" in reference to chapter 7, and it felt like the first acknowledgement of my writing style, things like this inspired me to keep going.  
>' ' sent me my first piece of constructive criticism and reminded me to be humble and strive to improve at all times. She also sent me many personal messages of encouragement. "Jesus Christ, give me more. This is fantastic! I really like your style of writing, though I feel occasionally you use things like "the blondebrunette" or "ex-solider/detective" a little too often. Honestly, aside from that I'm completely smitten! I am so glad I read this... I had about 7 different Sherlock fanfictions loaded and though this was the last one I clicked it was the first one I decided to try. Mostly your description had seemed interesting and gleaned with potential. Normally with fanfiction, especially given that it's two in the morning, I read a bit of the beginning, perhaps the first chapter if I'm interested, and move on so I can read different ones and finish it later. Not with this one. I legitimately started reading it and stopped about half way through the first chapter to post the link to it on tumblr because I couldn't not share it with the world. Brilliant. I absolutely CANNOT wait for more, but I know I must be patient since it seems that this chapter was put up mere days ago. Nonetheless, I am anxiously awaiting the next. Oh, and I was once told that in fictional writing, you should always spell out the number rather than just the number itself. It looks a bit more professional and is more appealing to the eye. Until you hit 100. In that case, there are too many words and I don't want to figure out the number you're trying to tell me haha :3"  
>She also left me this message during my hiatus "BABY COME BACK. Ahem. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE CONTINUE TO WRITE THIS 3 PLEASE. 3 Please. School should be out soon, yeah? We miss you. Please." and it was coming back to things like this that inspired me to keep going.<br>'Mistiquesbest' "Hold on to your dream and to your damnest very best to achieve it! Don't let go! Ever! Stay strong and work hard. Everything else can wait! Good luck!" messages of this kind were so lovely to read, in the end I did not end up where I originally wanted to be - but life has a way of working out for you and where I am right now may lead onto something even better.  
>I didn't make this 'chapter' in order to stroke my own ego, even if it may seem like it - in the end what I'm trying to say is appreciate your readers. They can do more for you than you ever realise and I would never have completed this without their help and encouragement. It was my first completed fiction, 37K+ words in length and at times felt like a marathon. In the end, my readers and I were a family, and that will mean more to me than anyone can ever I love you all, this was for you, and may life always treat you well wherever you are as we leave this story behind, and begin our own new adventures.  
>- MageRightsActivist<br>Previously your Mayora-San


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